He tousled her hair and slipped her a five from his own pocket. Kids, he thought. Inside, they were all just kids.

12

Cecil Pode’s work address led Decker to a block-long shopping center off Venice Boulevard in Culver City. The studio, sandwiched between a shoe store and a takeout pizza shop, was fronted by two large windows that displayed blowups of stiff poses and pasted-on smiles: a family dressed in Sunday finest, a bride silhouetted by backlighting, a bar mitzvah boy, a confirmation girl. In the distance, propped on an easel, was a sixteen-by-twenty photo of a pair of hands with matching wedding rings resting against a background of flowers.

No cum or beaver shots here.

Decker walked inside, and as he stepped over the threshold, a bell jingled. The room was empty, but a voice from the back told him he’d be out in a second. Decker said okay and sat down on a couch. In front of him was a coffee table covered with albums containing sample photos. He picked one up. More proofs of brides, grooms, bar mitzvah boys, nice families.

Restless, he stood up and walked around, his eyes finally focusing on a cork bulletin board full of tacked-on business cards—a professional baby-sitter; two shyster lawyers promising cheap fees (se habla español), CPAs, interior designers, a licensed marriage and family counselor (flashing on his sessions with Jan, he knew what that was worth). One card caught his attention. It bore the same last name as the studio’s owner. Dustin Pode, Vice President/Executive First Brokerage House. Member SPIC/The quality discount broker: investments, tax shelters, real estate, and retirement funds.

Decker pocketed the card, and a moment later a man came out of the back room. He looked older than fifty-two, stoop-shouldered, with coarse black hair streaked with steel encircling a large bald spot, and a matching swatch of Brillo under his small, round nose. He was overweight, with loose jowls and thin lips. The dark eyes managed to be weary and alert at the same time.

“How may I help you, sir?”

“Police,” Decker said taking out his badge.

Pode smiled unctuously.

“How can I be of service, Sergeant?” he asked.

“Tell me about Erotic Ectasy,” Decker said.

The smile didn’t waver.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Decker took out the picture of the Countess and laid it on the countertop.

“This is your handiwork. Shall we hang it in the window next to the confirmation girl?”

“Never saw her in my life,” the photographer said.

“Cut the bullshit, Pode.”

“All right, all right.”

He went over to the front door, turned the open sign to closed, and locked the door. For a fat man, his gait was surprisingly graceful.