Sacred and Profane (26 page)

“How are you, Doctor?”

“Fine. It took me a while to find the X rays. Earl hadn’t come in for quite a while. Must be ten years since his last appointment. Dustin was in here three years ago. If you want me to, I’ll send copies to Dr. Hennon, but you might want to run the originals over to her place and then give them back to me—save us all a little time and inconvenience.”

“I’ll be right over.” He hung up the phone.

Mike Hollander strolled up to the desk and handed Decker a manila envelope stamped:
Dr. Meisner—Confidential Records
.

“Earl’s pediatric records,” he said. “Can this man get the lead out or what?”

“Amazing what you can do when you work, Mike,” Marge said.

“Thanks,” Decker said, ripping them open. He flipped over the cover sheet and began to read.

“Anything new?” inquired Marge.

Decker didn’t answer.

“Pete?” asked Marge.

“Huh?”

“Anything new?”

“Decker, the woman’s talking to you,” Mike said, slapping his back.

“Uh…sorry. At least now I know why L.A. County had no record of Earl’s birth. He was born in Fresno.”

“A scenic spot to dump your load,” Hollander said.

“If you like armpits,” Marge said. “Weren’t the Podes married in Fresno?”

“Yep,” Decker answered. “Ten to one old Ida went home to Mama to foal.”

He read further, then said, “Earl broke his arm when he was eighteen months and was treated for burns at ages two and three. Jaw fracture at three also. Contusions and head injuries from a so-called fall at four, broken rib at four and a half…”

“Goddam, that stuff makes me sick,” Hollander exclaimed. “I’ve seen it over and over, and I never get used to it.”

Marge placed her hand on his shoulder. “You may be a horny old slob, but you’ve got a heart, Mike.”

Hollander threw her a dirty look.

“Burnt hands at seven,” Decker said. “Aha! Enuresis at nine. That’s bed-wetting. The doctor prescribed To…Tofin…I can’t read this.”

“Tofranil,” Marge said.

“Yeah, that’s it. Okay, okay. Here we go. He upped the dosage at age eleven.” Decker looked up. “The kid was still pissing in his pants at age eleven. The first time the Fire Department was called over to the Podes’ house was a year before. I think little Earl was a pyrophile. Let’s hear it for the headshrinkers.”

He read on, frowned, then began flipping back to the beginning pages.

“What’s wrong,” Marge wanted to know.

“Hmmm.”

“What is it?”

“You know, the burnt hands at seven were the last
recorded abuses,” Decker noted. “Dustin’s chart had physical abuse into his teens.”

“You’re talking about the old lady like she was rational or something,” Mike said.

Decker smiled. “You’re right.” He folded up the chart and tucked it under his arm. “I’ll double-check the records over lunch.”

Hennon stood in front of the viewing monitor, compared the sets of radiographs, and shook her head in amazement.

“I want you to promise me one thing, Pete.”

“What’s that, Annie?”

“If I’m ever found dead under mysterious circumstances, you’ll be the detective on the case.”

“A promise I hope I never have to keep,” he chuckled. “Which one belongs to the bones?”

“Earl…” She stared at the screen. “His teeth had shifted and changed a bit over time—a few new amalgams—but there’s enough similarity to some of the older restorations and a very distinctive old hairline fracture of the mid-mandible for me to say a definite match.”

She turned off the light switch and picked up a plaster replica of Earl’s skull. “Alas, poor Pode. I didn’t know him, Pete. Nor did I want to.”

The detective smiled.

“Got time for some coffee?” she asked.

“Thanks, but I’ve got to get these back to Bachman before he closes up shop.”

She nodded.

“How’s it going with your lady?” She made a face. “I don’t mean to be nosy—”

“It’s okay. I’d say it’s going…” He searched for the right word. “Well, let’s just say we have an understand
ing—a very nice understanding. She’s moving away to New York.”

“For good?” Hennon asked, surprised.

“For the time being.”

“What are you going to do in the meantime?”

“I don’t know. We’ve left it open. But some chains are permanent even if they are invisible.”

He shrugged, and she broke into a warm, wide smile. “You’ve got my number. A beer with a pal doesn’t seem like a bad way to spend an evening. Give us a call sometimes.”

“I will,” said Decker.

Hennon handed him the packet of X rays. “Good luck, Pete.”

They shook hands. Hers was firm and confident.

“Peter!” the boys cried simultaneously.

He hugged them both, smiled at Rina’s parents, and looked around.

“Where’s your eema?” he asked.

“Buying some books and junk at the gift shop,” Jake answered.

The airport wasn’t busy, but their flight was going to be crowded. The area around the departure gate was full. The adjacent plane was going to Madison, Wisconsin, and the passengers were mostly blonde and blue-eyed. The travelers to New York were a salad of ethnicities—a little black, a little Italian, a little Puerto Rican, some Irish or German, several Jews including some wearing knitted yarmulkes and dressed in ordinary street clothes and others with side curls, wearing long black coats and black hats and speaking Yiddish. Decker sat down and the boys took seats on either side.

“You know any of those men?” Decker asked pointing to the black-garbed Jews.

Jacob shook his head.

“They’re Chasidim,” Sammy said. “Fanatics!”

Decker laughed, but stopped quickly when he realized the boy was serious.

“I’ve got something for you guys,” he said, reaching into a paper bag.

“What?” Jake asked.

“A couple of Go-Bots. I didn’t have time to wrap them. One’s a bad guy, the other’s a good one. You boys decide who wants who.”

“We can switch off,” Jacob said, tearing the plastic bubble over the toy. He started pulling on the die-cast metal pieces, changing the figure from a bulldozer into a pocket-sized robot.

“Excited about going?” Decker asked.

“Yeah!” Sammy exclaimed, holding his unopened toy in his hand. “I
love
my
bubbe
and
zaydah
.”

Decker glanced at Rina’s parents. They pretended not to hear, but the wounded look shone in their eyes.

“You have lots of relatives in New York, don’t you?” Decker said quietly.

“Tons!” said Sammy. “My abba’s two sisters live there. Tante Esther has five kids; the oldest one just turned eighteen and got her driver’s license! Tante Shayna has four kids, and my cousin Reuven and I are only two days apart.”

“And Shimon and I are only two months apart,” Jake said.

“I look exactly like Reuven,” Sammy continued. “People used to always mistake us for twins ’cause I look like my abba and he looks like Tante Shayna, and my abba and she looked alike. And you know what else?”

“What?”

“I have great-grandparents there! They are
so
old—like seventy-three or four.”

“That’s great,” said Decker.

“And they’re not even senile or anything.”

Decker laughed. His own parents were close to that age. “You should have a good time.”

“Eema said we’re going to go to a big school,” Jake said. “And there’ll be lots of people, so we won’t have to worry about bad guys dumping bodies and Eema being alone.”

The younger boy quieted suddenly and leaned his head on Decker’s shoulder.

“I’ll miss you, Peter. I’ll miss the horses. I don’t think they have horses in Borough Park.”

The thought of horses roaming the wilds of Brooklyn made Decker smile.

“I’ll miss you, too,” said Sammy in a small voice.

“I’ll miss you guys like anything. More than you could know. But I’m also very happy ’cause I know you’ll be having lots of fun being with your abba’s family.”

Decker hugged them and gave them each a big kiss.

“Take care of yourselves.”

They hugged and kissed him back.

“Aren’t you gonna wait for Eema?” Jake asked.

“I’ll meet her at the newsstand.” Decker got up and nodded to Rina’s parents.

“It was nice that you came down,” Mr. Elias said.

“Couldn’t let the kids leave without saying goodbye.”

Her mother looked at him, then turned away.

“Good-bye, Mrs. Elias.”

“Good-bye,” she said formally.

Decker trousled the boys’ hair and headed toward the gift shop, saddened. He knew he’d miss the boys tremendously, but at least they seemed excited about the move. It was some consolation.

He found Rina paging through a paperback with a lurid cover. She was wearing a muted pink cable-knit sweater,
a full, pleated gray wool skirt, and gray suede boots. Her hair was tucked into a knitted angora tam. Her face was soft and serene even under the harsh fluorescent lighting.

He walked over to her and took the book out of her hand. She jumped.

“Peter! What are you doing here? I told you not to come!”

“I wanted to see the boys off.” He looked at the cover of the paperback. “
The Jackknife Slasher-The True Account of a Woman’s Plunge into Terror
. Sure you want to read this?”

She began to cry uncontrollably. Decker put the book back, escorted her out of the airport gift shop and into an isolated corner. He hugged her fiercely.

“I knew…this…would happen,” she said between sobs.

He rocked her, kissed a delicate earlobe jeweled with a single diamond stud.

“Don’t go,” he whispered.

She didn’t answer. He knew she would leave. It was best for both of them. But every condemned man can still pray for an eleventh-hour reprieve.

“I love you,” he said. “We’ll work it out if you stay.”

She still said nothing. Her tear-streaked face leaned against his shirt, looking as lost and forlorn as a wet puppy.

He sighed and gave up. “I’m a phone call away, honey,” he said. “You ring, I take the next flight out.”

She nodded and brought his mouth down to hers.

A sweet kiss.

A flight number was announced over the loudspeaker.

“That’s my flight,” she said, wiping tears off her face. “Oh my God, Peter. What am I going to do without you?”

He smiled. “You’ll do real well without me.”

Too well
, he thought.

“I don’t think so,” she said, breaking away. She took a deep breath. “Walk me to the gate?”

Decker hesitated. “I’ve already said bye to the boys. I don’t think your parents are too anxious to see me again.”

“I’ll miss you terribly,” she said.

“I’ll miss you terribly, too,” he said. “You write, you hear? Or better yet, call…collect.”

“That won’t be necessary, Peter,” she answered. “I have a feeling we’re going to rack up enormous phone bills.”

“I’ll pay for them all.”

“We’ll split them down the middle,” she said.

“Liberated woman.”

“Hardly.” Her lip began to tremble.

“You know, Rina,” he said. “If I’m going to keep studying with Rabbi Schulman, I figured I should take on a Jewish name. What do you think?”

“I think it’s a
great
idea,” she said, breaking into a dazzling smile.

“Schulman suggested Pinchas. I guess that was as close an approximation to Peter that he could find. Then I discovered that Pinchas is Phineas in English—as in Phineas Fogg. I vetoed that one.”

“It doesn’t suit you, either,” she said. “Pinchas was a religious zealot.”

“No, that’s not me,” he said. “I like Akiva. What do you think?”

“I
love
it!”

The loudspeaker announced the final flight call.

“I’ve got to go.” She kissed his lips softly. “Take care of yourself.”

The tears had come back, but that didn’t stop her. She pivoted and walked toward the gate. She had a lovely sway, a graceful step.

“I love you, Rina,” he called out.

“I love you too, Akiva,” she shouted, turning her head to look at him as she strode toward her family.

By the time Decker got back to the car, he noticed his cheeks were wet.
Goddam smog
, he thought, rubbing his stinging eyes.
Even at night, it doesn’t leave you alone
.

Decker revved the
Porsche up to ninety and flew on the empty stretch of freeway. The speed and wind gave him an illusion of infinite freedom, youth, and immortality. It had been months since he’d last burned rubber, and after seeing Rina off, he needed to rid himself of the emotion that had swelled inside and cut loose. The abandon lasted only a few minutes; his beeper went off, and his rearview mirror reflected a cruiser flashing him its blues. Pulling the Porsche onto the shoulder, he took out his badge disgustedly, got out of the car, and handed it to the uniform. The officer examined it carefully, then handed it back to him.

“What’d you clock me at?” Decker asked.

“Ninety-two.” The officer eyed the car. “Nice set of wheels.”

“Thanks. Put her together myself from bits and pieces over the years,” said Decker. “She sure can race.”

“I’ve got a ’68 ’Vette myself. Blown and supercharged. It’s one hell of a fast motherfucker.”

“A land jet.”

“You’ve got it, Sarge.” He smiled at Decker. “Take it easy.”

“I just got beeped,” Decker said. “I’m working Homicide. Mind if I use your radio?” He gave the cop his
unit number and a moment later was patched through to Foothill.

“A break?” the patrolman asked after Decker hung up.

“Not sure, but I can hope,” Decker said. He got into his car and left behind a cloud of exhaust.

Marge was waiting for him at his desk.

“What’s so urgent at…” Decker checked his watch, “11:36
P.M.
?”

“Did you take your No-Doz tonight?”

“What do you have?”

She slapped some papers into his hands—warrants.

“That was fast,” he said.

“Arlington’s statement carries clout with a certain judge. Morrison called up and
voilà!
”

Decker read the documents—search warrants for Executive First and Cameron Smithson’s condo, and an arrest warrant for Smithson Junior himself.

“Nothing for Dustin?” he asked.

“We don’t have anything on him. Let’s be grateful for what we’ve got.” Marge put on her coat. “A couple of West L.A. detectives are searching Junior’s house. We’ll take Executive First.”

Decker pocketed the papers.

“Let’s go catch a bastard,” he said.

Forty minutes later, the detectives turned onto Avenue of the Stars. The Century City thoroughfare was an empty ribbon of glistening blacktop bordered by steel-griddle buildings that shimmered in the cool, overcast air. Marge pulled the unmarked into a loading zone in front of a postmodern edifice of chrome and glass—no doubt someone’s architectural statement, she thought.
Cold cold cold!

They walked up the black brick pathway to double
glass doors. The entrance hall was brightly lit by a ceiling of fluorescent tubing and a security guard sat reading
Sports Illustrated
in a booth to the right of a bank of six elevators.

Decker knocked and the guard looked up—a middle-aged man with thick, fleshy features and a cue-ball head. Placing his hand on his gun, the guard swaggered over to them. They showed him their badges through the glass.

“What is it?” he asked them, opening the locked door.

“We have a search warrant for suite 581 of this building,” Marge informed him. “Your superior should have notified you of our arrival.”

“No one called me,” said the bald man, shrugging.

“Why don’t you call in?” suggested Decker.

As the watchman phoned, they waited on a bench in front of the elevators. Decker placed his elbows on his knees and rested his head in his palms. Until now he hadn’t fully realized how much of his life Rina, the boys, and the yeshiva had taken up. Now, with long stretches of time suddenly at his disposal, he felt aimless instead of liberated. Sudden anger welled up inside his chest. Rina had no right to desert him. Or maybe it was the other way around. Hadn’t he suggested they take a breather from each other? But a breather didn’t mean her
leaving
him and moving away.

Fuck it all! Well, better hostility than depression. At least anger pumped him up for work. Depression left him a zombie.

“What do you think we’ll find?” Marge asked.

“I’m not naive enough to think that the asshole left his books out in plain view, but maybe we can locate something incriminating against the whole shitload of scum.”

“You okay, Pete?”

“Fine.”

The guard put down the receiver and motioned them over.

“Yep,” he said to them, “you’re all cleared. Someone should have called, but you know how messages get screwed up. I think half our operators are on something.” The man scrunched his eyes and rubbed his egghead. “They talk kind of slurred and giggle all the time.”

“Can you take us up now?” Marge asked impatiently.

“Oh yeah. Sure, Detective. Right away.”

He unlocked an elevator, rode with them up to the fifth floor, took out a passkey, and walked them to the suite. Muffled voices could be heard through the walls. Decker put his index finger to his lips and motioned them into the corner of the hallway, far enough away from the suite not to be heard, but close enough to keep an eye on the door.

“When did they come up here?” Marge whispered to the guard.

“They must’ve entered before I came on duty because they didn’t come after I got here. I came on duty at ten
P.M.
”

“Maybe they never went home from work,” Decker suggested in a hushed voice. “Go back to your station. Use the stairwell and be very quiet about it.”

The guard nodded and disappeared. Decker drew his gun.

“Expecting trouble?” Marge asked, taking out her own.

“Not really,” he answered. “I checked gun registration, and nothing was ever issued to any of the Podes or Smithsons. But Cecil pulled a .38 on me and I’m not taking any more chances with these pricks.

“If Cameron Smithson is in there, the case is duck soup. We go in and make the arrest. If he isn’t, then we’ll have to do a number on whoever is in there.”

“Namely Smithson Senior or Pode or both,” Marge said.

“Just what we were going to do anyway. Any last minute things you want to go over?”

She shook her head. “How about yourself?”

“I’m clear. Let’s go.”

They went back to the office. Decker pounded on the door and stepped aside.

“Police,” he yelled. “Open up.”

Harrison Smithson responded by partially opening the door and sticking out his head. Flushed and panting, he looked overwrought.

“What’s going on?”

“Police officers,” Marge said. She opened her wallet and showed him the badge. “Open up.”

The broker paused.

“We have a search warrant, Mr. Smithson,” she added. “You have no choice.”

Decker pushed the door open.

Dustin Pode was stooped over, brushing off the knees of his trousers. The room was in complete disarray. Filing cabinet drawers were pulled out, boxes stuffed with papers were piled on the desks and chairs. A paper shredder was going full force in the corner. Marge ran over and shut it off.

“What the hell is going on?” Pode asked.

“Planning on going somewhere, gentlemen?” Decker asked, putting his gun away.

“Who are you?” Pode spat at Decker. “Sure as hell your real name isn’t Jack Cohen.”

The detective pulled out his badge and ID, and as Pode read, a look of horrified recognition swept across his face.

“You’re the cop who murdered my father.”

Decker stuffed the badge back in his jacket and said,
“We have a search warrant for this premise and an arrest warrant for Cameron Smithson.”

“Cameron isn’t here,” Harrison said quickly.

“Where is he?” Marge asked.

“I don’t know,” his father answered. “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing barging in on citizens like this?”

The feigned outrage did little to conceal the obvious fright that was overtaking Smithson. Decker bore into him.

“Unless you want an obstruction charge tacked onto whatever else we find, I suggest you let us get on with our work.”

“Call Cahill and Jarrett,” Pode said softly to Smithson. “And don’t say anything until someone gets here.”

“Dustin, I think—”

“Harrison, just do as I say!”

Decker walked around the room, tangled his leg in the switchboard cord, tripped, and ripped it out of the wall.

“Goddam!” he swore. “I sure am clumsy.”

He searched his pockets and pulled out some change.

“Here. There must be a pay phone in the building somewhere. The call’s on me.”

“Generous,” Pode said, glaring at the open palm. “Keep your change. I don’t want anything from you.” He turned his attention to Smithson. “Use the phone in the lobby, Harry.”

“I think I need some air, Pete,” Marge said. “I’ll walk you down, Mr. Smithson.”

“A phone call to my lawyer is confidential, Detective,” Smithson said, trying to remain calm.

“Yeah, but a phone call to your son warning him off could get you in a lot of trouble,” Marge replied. “I’m only thinking of your welfare.”

“Make the call, Harrison,” Pode ordered.

As they left, Marge gave Decker a surreptitious wink. God bless Marjorie, he thought. If only he and the woman he loved were as attuned to each other as the two of them were.

He started sorting through the piles of papers while trying to size up Pode. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the stockbroker methodically remove a box from a chair, pick up a copy of
Forbes
that was lying around, and bury himself in the magazine. He looked nervous but still in control.
Well, let’s see if something can’t be done about that
.

“You know, Pode,” he began. “I’ve been checking into you.”

“Do tell.”

“I’ve been checking into you like the way I checked into your father.” Decker pulled out a ledger and opened it. “Like I checked into your mother, like I checked into your brother…”

Pode didn’t react.

“Tell me something, Dustin. Did Earl ever stop wetting his bed?”

Pode’s only response was fingers gripping the edges of the magazine.

“He didn’t?” Decker pressed.

A small laugh emanated from behind the periodical.

“I guess not, huh?”

Silence.

“Hey, there’s nothing to be embarrassed about. A lot of boys are bed wetters. I’m just curious if Earl ever licked the problem.”

“Why don’t you ask him?”

“I would if I could find him,” said Decker. “Heard from him lately?”

Silence.

Decker had asked the morgue to hold off notifying
Pode about his brother’s death. Just now Pode had responded acerbically, without fear or trepidation. Either Dustin didn’t know that Earl had died or he didn’t care.

“Where’s Cameron?” Decker asked.

“I don’t have to answer your questions,” Pode said. “Just do what you have to do and get out of here.”

“You’re right,” Decker agreed. “You don’t have to answer my questions, but I can still ask ’em. For instance, how come your mama had such a hard time opening her bedroom door to escape that fire she died in?”

Pode slammed down the magazine. His face had turned white.

“I don’t have to listen to this!”

Decker ignored him. “Now sometimes people can’t turn door handles because they’re just too damn hot to touch,” he went on. “But that’s usually the case when the fire starts on the outside, not on the inside. And if Mama did grab a red-hot handle, some of her flesh would have seared onto the metal. That didn’t happen. Now how could she not have had enough strength to turn a door handle and get the hell out of there?”

“I’m going to take a walk,” Pode said.

“I don’t think so.”

“And how do you propose to stop me?”

“How about I’m delaying you for questioning? Material witness to a triple homicide.”

“Is that official?”

“If you want it to be.”

Pode said nothing, turned around, and started straightening some papers.

“Don’t touch anything,” Decker commanded.

Clenching his jaw, Pode went back to
Forbes
. Decker scanned a ledger, put it aside, and ripped open another box.

“Now I know that your mother was drunk that day. In
fact she was a chronic alcoholic. And chronic lushes have a keen sense of survival.” He dumped the contents of the carton of the floor and began to sort through the scattered papers. “See, what I figure is maybe Mama was trying to get out from the inside and someone was holding the door from the outside.

Carefully, Pode placed the magazine on the floor and went to the water cooler. Beads of perspiration had formed on his forehead.

“As long as you’re up, how about you getting me a drink?” Decker asked.

“Get it yourself!”

“C’mon. Don’t be sore.”

“Fuck off!”

Decker got up, kicked another box and, walked over to the cooler. Dustin walked away, but Decker dogged his heels.

“Did you ever see that special with Farrah Fawcett that was on the boob tube a couple of years back?
The Burning Bed
, I think it was.”

Dustin sat back down in his chair and didn’t answer. Decker stood behind him, peering down over his shoulders.

“I remember when the real case hit the papers,” he said. “Francine Hughes murdered her husband by burning him to death after putting up with years of physical abuse.”

“Are you insinuating anything?” Pode croaked out.

“Nah,” he said, dismissing the thought as absurd. “Want to know what I found out about you?”

“I’m not particularly interested in what you found out,” Dustin said. He had interlaced his fingers, but the hands were still shaking.

“I looked at your medical records and found out you were an abused kid,” Decker said. “Damn shame no one
reported it back then. Your mother used to get drunk a lot and whop the shit out of you. You want to know what else I found out?”

Dustin didn’t respond.

“Earl was an abused child also. But when he reached five, something amazing happened. His pediatric records stopped showing signs of physical abuse. Now yours were full of them clear up through your teens.”

Pode began to breathe heavily.