“I said I’ll call her. What do you have, Marge?”

“We struck out, Peter. I couldn’t find out any of Pode’s film investors. Confidential.”

“Damn.” Decker lit a cigarette. So he’d die of lung cancer. He had no one to live for anyway. “Did you ever get a chance to talk to the streetwalkers in Hollywood about the Grandpas?”

She pointed her thumbs downward. “Their lips were zipped. A couple of young ones—their ID says eighteen but their faces say at least a couple of years younger—got very nervous when I mentioned Maurice. But they denied knowing anyone by that name. I got the impression that these old farts were paying them lots of money, maybe scaring them also.”

“Did you tell them about Kiki?”

“They knew about her. ‘Aw, too bad. She was a nice kid, but kinda dumb. I take care of myself better than she did.’ I’m sorry I couldn’t do better—”

“No, no.” He crushed his cigarette out in an ashtray. “I really don’t like working Homicide. I’ve got to finish the case just to be rid of it and this division.” He looked at her. “I’m going to talk to Arlington.”

“Don’t chance it without departmental okay, Pete.”

“A cop died during that shoot-out.”

“Yes, I know. The whole department knows. But Arlington didn’t pull the trigger.”

“He was there. Someone’s got to crack his nuts.”

“Patience. The timing’s wrong. If anyone comes within a mile of him, he screams harrassment and makes a phone call. You get dressed down. What’s the point?”

The phone rang.

“Decker,” he said.

“Is Detective Sergeant Peter Decker there?”

He stared at the receiver and shook his head. “This is Sergeant Decker.”

“This is Ms. Lotta from the Hall of Records. You asked about the Podes’ marriage, birth, and death certificates?”

“I sure did. What do you have for me?”

She cleared her throat.

“Mr. Cecil Pode married Miss Ida Brubaker in Fresno, California, on June 21, 1955. Mrs. Ida Pode’s death certificate was signed on May 17, 1977. Cause of death was indeterminate because she was burnt up so badly. She was identified through dental records.”

“Any names of surviving kin?”

“If there are, I don’t have any. All I deal with is certificates. I have no access to obituaries, Sergeant.”

“Do you have the name of the dentist who made the identification?” Decker asked.

“No. The death certificate was signed by the ME.”

“That’s fine, Ms. Lotta. What about the birth certificates?”

“There’s a registration of birth for a Dustin Pode, but I didn’t find any other children born to them. That doesn’t mean there are no other children. It only means Dustin Pode was the only child born in L. A. County.”

“Thank you.”

He put down the receiver, scribbled a few notes, and dialed Parker Center—Police Statistics.