Peter Decker 3-Book Thriller Collection. Faye Kellerman

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СКАЧАТЬ phone rang. He picked up the receiver, listened while jotting down notes, thanked the party on the other end, and hung up.

      “That was Colin MacGruder of the Culver City PD bomb squad.”

      “And?”

      “Homemade number. Could have picked up the components anywhere. I forgot to ask him how the damn thing was detonated.”

      Decker started to redial, but put down the phone when he saw the police artist walking his way, Clementine behind him. Decker and Marge met him halfway across the room.

      “What do you have, Larry?” Marge asked.

      He handed her the composite of the Blade.

      “Holy shit!” she said.

      Decker grabbed the picture. “This is the Blade?” he asked Clementine.

      “As best I remember,” the pimp answered. “Like I tole you all you white boys look alike.”

      “That’s Dustin Pode!” Marge exclaimed.

      “Goddam if it isn’t,” agreed Decker.

      “Then who the hell is the boy in the movie?” she asked.

      “I’ll see that question and raise you one better: Whose bones are lying in the morgue?”

      Decker sat at the table in the Century Plaza Bar and played with the swizzle stick in his glass of club soda. Dustin was on his third whiskey sour, Cameron was nursing a gin and tonic. Things were going smoothly; Pode hadn’t made him as a cop. Neither of them had batted an eyelash when he ordered plain soda. Probably thought he was an alkie on the wagon. Pode began his initial pitch:

      “The initial investment will most likely net a fifteen-and-a-half percent return on a buy-in at five thousand K per unit. That in itself is a handsome return. But the big pay-off, Mr. Cohen, is the capital appreciation.”

      Dustin Pode straightened his Countess Mara tie, smoothed his cashmere blazer, and handed Decker a four-page glossy. The color phots included pictures of ruddy men with white hair and flabby chins dressed in gray flannel suits, and several views of spanking new structures—apartment buildings, condos, motels. Next to the photos were profit/loss statements, earnings for the two previous years, and projected earnings for the next fiscal year.

      “You can see here, Mr. Cohen, average time of investment holdings is about five years, and figuring the rate of return based on projected earnings, you should be able to walk away with a long-term gain of at least twenty-five percent per year.”

      “Guaranteed,” Smithson Junior added.

      Dustin chuckled nervously at the statement.

      “Nothing is guaranteed,” he corrected. “But this is as close to a sure thing as anything around.”

      Dustin sipped his sour. Nothing but ice left in it now. Decker smiled encouragingly and Pode continued:

      “Of course, you, Mr. Cohen—being the sophisticated investor that you are—don’t have to be reminded about the inherent risks in any syndication—”

      “I like risks,” Decker interrupted.

      “No gain without some pain, right, Mr. Cohen?” said Cameron.

      Pode flinched and produced a sickly smile.

      Decker tried not to stare at Pode, but it was hard. He couldn’t imagine this unctuous salesman—when you got down to it that’s all brokers were—associating with someone like the Countess. But then again, the repressed ones were usually the kinkiest.

      It was easier to imagine violence in Cameron. There was something dead about his eyes.

      “You know,” said Decker. “I thought I might like to take a stab at something even riskier, but with a higher potential upside.”

      Pode finished his drink and waited for Decker to go on. Cameron wasn’t as patient.

      “Such as?” he asked.

      “I hear you boys have done well on film deals.”

      Cameron cleared his throat. “We’ve had a great deal of success in the past—”

      “But we don’t do film syndication anymore unless something spectacular comes along,” Pode broke in. “The movie industry is too risky, what with inflated budgets and the unpredictable tastes of the public. More important, the new tax laws have minimized the amount of loss now deductible on initial investment. It used to be that even if you invested a portion in a film, the total loss allowable to be deducted was the sum total of the amount of the invested—”

      “I’m sure Mr. Cohen doesn’t want to be bored by details,” Cameron interrupted.

      Pode stiffened. His hand squeezed his glass and his knuckles whitened.

      “The upshot is,” Cameron said, “film doesn’t bring in the money it once did. However, once in a while a good limited partnership presents itself. We’ll be happy to let you know when one does.”

      Decker picked up the P/L statement, the three prospectuses, and a stack of graphs and charts.

      “Do that.” He stood up. “I have to be getting back. Thanks for your time. I’ll rethink what we’ve talked about and let you know just as soon as I’ve come to a decision.”

      Smithson and Pode stood and extended their hands. Decker took Smithson’s first.

      “Nice to talk with you, Mr. Cohen,” Cameron said flatly.

      Decker offered his hand to Pode.

      “Thank you, Mr. Cohen. It was a pleasure talking to you, and I hope the future portends a mutually advantageous business relationship for us.”

      Decker smiled. “I’m sure it will.”

      He sat in the darkness of his bedroom and felt like a widower. He mourned the lost relationship with Rina; he mourned the staleness of the Bates-Armbruster case.

      If Dustin was the Blade, then who was the painted-faced kid in the movie? An understudy who’d stepped in at the last moment?

      Had Dustin pulled his father into porno or vice versa?

      Just what was Dustin’s involvement?

      How could he tap into Dustin without scaring him off?

      The hell with it.

      He turned on the light and stared at the siddur resting on his nightstand. He shouldn’t leave it out like that. He should put it away on a shelf so he wouldn’t spill coffee on it. For no reason, he picked it up and began reading the praises of God. Without his realizing it, he had said maariv—the evening prayers. He turned off the light and stared at the blackness that surrounded him. He had been moved by the words. Solitude always brought out his religious nature. Strange that the only time Marge thought about God was when she was alone in bed. Perhaps God was СКАЧАТЬ