Peter Decker 3-Book Thriller Collection

“She’s left her watermark.”

“Then this was for nothing.” She seemed hurt.

“It wasn’t for nothing. I had a nice time with you. You’re great company and a lovely woman.”

“Sure. Let’s go out for a beer sometimes,” she said sarcastically.

“Not in the bars I frequent. You’d have ten guys on your tail the minute you walked in the door.”

She smiled.

“Trying to redeem yourself, Pete?”

“How am I doing so far?”

“Not bad. Keep going.”

He rubbed his eyes. “In all seriousness, tomorrow I’m going to kick myself for being such an ass tonight. I must be crazy to let you slide through my fingers.”

“So do something about it. Make the plunge.”

“I can’t. I’m too confused. Give me about a month or so.”

She folded her arms across her chest and looked him over.

“I’ll think about it.”

“Thanks for the consideration,” he said. He hoped he was being disarming. Luckily, the awkward situation took care of itself. His beeper went off.

“Phone’s over in the kitchen,” she said.

It was Marge.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“I found Clementine.”

“I’ll be right down,” he said eagerly.

“Hold on, Kiddo. He ain’t going anywhere. He’s in the county jail.”

21

On Monday morning Decker watched Clementine pick up his personal belongings at the grilled window of the county jail. Seen in the light, the clean-shaven, bespectacled man was the color of a paper bag, with blue eyes, a bald spot, a weak chin, and a close-cropped Afro. Thin, short, and slight, he could easily have been mistaken for a café au lait Mr. Peepers. Not very intimidating. No wonder he liked doing business in the shadows.

He eyed Decker, and the two of them walked out of the receiving area into a grassy courtyard. Clementine looked up at Decker’s face and then at the bulge in the detective’s jacket.

“Sergeant,” he said, acknowledging Decker.

“You beat the rap, huh?”

“The lady dropped the charges.”

“She was in a coma for two days.”

Clementine smiled. “The incident between the lady and me was purely a business matter, Sergeant. Nothing personal.”

“Have to keep ’em in line, right?” Decker pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and offered it to the pimp.

“The lady don’t mind,” Clementine said, taking the smoke. “She depends on my good will for her livelihood.”

Decker gave him an impassive stare and got a grin of porcelain caps in return. Teeth again. He noticed them all the time now.

“What do you want?” Clementine asked.

“Recognize this guy?” Decker showed him the picture of the painted man in the film.

Clementine took off his glasses, squinted, then replaced them on his nose.

“Dude’s got on a shitload of warpaint. How the hell should I know who he be?”

He’d dipped into his pimp persona.

“Take a good look,” Decker pressed. “Look at the build, at any distinguishing marks that might remind you of someone.”

The pimp shrugged.

“Clementine, is this the Blade?” asked Decker.

“Don’t know, Cop. Can’t tell with all the camouflage.”

“Look at these other stills. Could these be the Blade?”

Clementine quickly sorted through the photographs.

“Can’t help you, Decker.”

He handed back the pictures.

“What did the Blade look like?” Decker urged. “C’mon, you’ve seen the dude. Short, tall—”

“Everyone looks tall to me.”

“How was he built? What kind of threads did he wear?”

“Dude was skinny. I tole you that. I know I tole you that. Hey, I’m no fuckin’ fashion consultant. I’m a free man. I gotta go, so if you’ll excuse me—”

Decker grabbed his bony arm.