Peter Decker 3-Book Thriller Collection

“I want you to come down to the station and do a composite for the police artist.”

The pimp swung out a hip and sneered at Decker.

“Now why would I wanna do that, Cop?”

“Community service. And if you don’t, I’m going hunting for you, Clementine. Your whores’ll be marked. Your ‘livelihood’ will wind up in jail and your spare cash’ll be pissed away for bail money. And if you don’t think I’m serious, you ask anyone I’ve ever worked with how determined I can be.”

The pimp snarled and spat a chunk of brown saliva on the ground. Mr. Peepers was trying to save face.

“Perhaps I could work it into my busy schedule.”

“Perhaps you could work it in right now.”

“Find anything in the crap we picked up from Pode’s studio?” Marge asked Decker.

He looked up from his desk, took a sip of lukewarm black coffee, and shook his head.

“No such luck. The films left behind were legit, the junk papers were random numbers or meaningless scribbles. Nothing illuminating or incriminating.”

He leaned back in his chair.

“How’d the interviews go this morning, Margie?”

“I must have hit every dirty bookstore and porn studio in Hollywood. A few had heard of Cecil Pode, but none admitted doing business with him.”

“If you believe that, you’ll believe anything.”

“My sentiments exactly,” she agreed. “But you can only roust so much before the ACLU gets on your ass.”

“How about Dustin Pode? Anything new on him?”

“Far as I know, Joe Broker’s clean as a whistle,” she said. “When’s your appointment with him and Cameron—and the inimitable Jack Cohen?”

“Three. Drinks at the Century Plaza.” Decker rubbed his eyes. “Did you find out anything about the Blade?”

“The name sounded familiar to a few of ’em. Nothing beyond that. What about Clementine?”

“He’s giving a composite of the Blade to Henderson right now. I hope to have a face to match the name in a few minutes.”

“Good,” she nodded. “You know, I tried to call you yesterday. Now that you’re eating like a normal person, I wanted to invite you over to a Sunday barbecue at Carroll’s, but you weren’t home.”

“What the hell was I doing yesterday?” He wrinkled his forehead. “Oh yeah, I took Rina’s kids out on the horses.”

She gave him a funny look.

“You’re back together again?”

“No, I don’t think we’ve said a dozen words to each other. She’s called here twice, but I keep putting off calling her back. But why take it out on the kids, we’d arranged this outing weeks ago.”

“You break up with the woman, but keep the kids?” She shook her head in amazement. “You’re a sucker, Decker.”

He shrugged. “What can I tell you? There’s an attachment.”

His 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—”