Peter Decker 3-Book Thriller Collection. Faye Kellerman
go through an entire box in the same time it takes Hollander to go through three pictures.”
“I’m a careful observer with an eye for detail,” Hollander retorted. “Get off my back, lady.”
Decker started in on the next box.
“Jesus,” Hollander exclaimed. “Have these young women no shame? She’s got jism up her nose.”
“A picture that grosses you out?” Marge said to Hollander. “This I’ve got to see.”
She held the snapshot.
“Ugh! She’s covered in cum.”
Decker took a peek and his eyes widened. He grabbed the photo out of Dunn’s hand.
“What is it, Pete?”
“Got any more pictures of this one, Mike?”
“Yeah,” Hollander said. “Tons. She’s a busy little beaver, ’scuse the pun.”
“What is it?” Dunn repeated.
“Her teeth!” Decker exclaimed. “Look at her front teeth! They’re pegs!”
“Here’s some others,” Hollander said.
Decker shuffled excitedly through the pile. None of the others showed her teeth, but he did find one that looked promising. She was performing fellatio, and it showed a complete side view of her face.
“I’ve got to make a couple of phone calls,” Decker said. “Margie, contact Vice and reference these photos. Mike, keep looking for Lindsey Bates.”
“Will do,” Hollander said, grinning and saluting.
Decker rushed out of the room and nearly collided with George.
“Got another phone call, Pete.”
Decker punched down the line.
“This is Mrs. Grover. I got a message on my machine to call a Detective Sergeant Decker at the Foothill police station?”
The woman sounded elderly.
“Thanks for calling back, Mrs. Grover,” he said. “This is Sergeant Decker. I’m calling about that one bedroom you had advertised in the Santa Monica Express.”
“I’m sorry, Sergeant, it’s been rented.”
“Could you tell me the name of the person you rented it to?”
“Uh, am I allowed to do that?”
“Yes, ma’am, you are.”
“I guess it’s all right, then. After all, you are the police.”
Decker waited.
“His name is Christopher Truscott.”
Bingo!
“Is Mr. Truscott in right now?”
“I believe he is.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Grover. I want to stop by and talk to him and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention our little conversation.”
“Is he in trouble, Sergeant? I don’t want any troublemakers—”
“No, no. It’s nothing like that. But I want to surprise him with my visit.”
“Well … Well right.”
“I’ll stop by and introduce myself, ma’am.”
“That would be lovely.”
“Good-bye.”
Decker clapped his hands together, rubbed them vigorously, and let go with a broad smile. Leads! He was getting some leads! He called Annie Hennon.
“Hello, Pete. What’s up?”
“Have you got a spare lunch hour?”
“Personal or business?”
“The latter.”
“Either way, it’s fine.”
“Then I’ll see you at noon, Annie.”
“Hey, what say I send out for some Chinese food?”
He paused. “I keep kosher.”
“Pizza?” she tried. “Plain cheese pizza?”
“Strictly kosher.”
“I thought you weren’t sure you were Jewish.”
“I’m still not sure, but I’m working on it. I’ve got a sack lunch anyway.”
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll pick up some cottage cheese. It’s a good time to start my diet.”
Her figure didn’t need it, he thought.
“See you at noon,” he said.
His next call let Freddy at the Police Photo Lab know he was sending up a few snapshots to enlarge. Marge came up to his desk.
“The photos of Pegteeth were clipped from a defunct rag called Erotic Ecstasy. These are at least a year old, and naturally, the editor has cut town. But this is a list of photographers the magazine hired.”
Decker took the list and scanned the contents. Cecil Pode’s name jumped out at him. He felt that surge of excitement, the hunting instinct. But instead of prey, he ferreted out resolution—order in an otherwise disintegrating world.
“This guy,” Decker said pointing to Pode’s name. “I want to find out more about him. He’s a legit photographer, but one of my ears on the street tells me he has a sideline specializing in the younger trade.”
Marge checked off the name. “I’ll see what I can dig up,” she said.
“Good,” Decker answered. “Mike, run these photos up to Freddy. I’ve called him and left instructions, so all you have to do is give them to him.”
“Sure. Where are you going?”
“To talk to Lindsey Bates’s boyfriend.”
11
Truscott had moved up in the world. Apparently being remiss on debts paid off. His new residence was in a thirty-unit building in a fashionable part of Santa Monica—new construction made of cheap, brown stucco that wouldn’t wear well. But each unit had a balcony and the front was abloom with flowers. The complex contained a pool, a hot tub, a recreation room, a small but well-equipped gym, and plenty of BMWs in the subterranean parking lot. Decker found the manager’s unit and knocked on the door.
“Who is it?”
He recognized the voice.
“It’s the police. Mrs. Grover.”
He heard a series of clicks and snaps, locks being unhinged. The door opened. Mrs. Grover was in her seventies, with thin blue hair.
“Sergeant Decker?” she asked tentatively.
Decker showed the woman his ID.
“Won’t you come in, please.”
She whistled her S’s. Dentures.
“Thank you,” Decker said, “but I’m fine out here. Which unit is Mr. Truscott’s?”
“Number thirteen. The second one on the left. He’s still there, Sergeant. Would you like to come in for a cup of coffee first?”
“I’d love to, Mrs. Grover, but I’m a bit pressed for time.”
The old woman accepted his excuse as if she’d heard it plenty of times before. Decker noticed the change in her expression.
“But if you don’t mind, I could use a glass of water,” he said.
She perked up. “Certainly.”