The doorbell rang; Jack squinted in. Patchett walked to the door, opened it. Lynn Bracken shoved her newspaper at him-- zoom into a panic duet: mute lip movements, fear very large. Jack put an ear to the glass--all he heard was his own heart thumping. No need for sound: they didn't know Sid was dead, they're scared anyway, they didn't kill him.
They walked into the next room--full curtains, no way to look or listen. Jack ran to his car.
o o o
He made the Bureau ten minutes late. The Homicide pen was jam-packed _Badge of Honor_: Brett Chase, Miller Stanton, David Mertens the set man, Jerry Marsalas his nurse--one long bench crammed tight. Standing: Billy Dieterling, the camera crew, a half dozen briefcase men: attorneys for sure. The gang looked nervous; Duane Fisk and Don Kleckner paced with clipboards. No Mar Peltz, no Russ Millard.
Billy D. shot him the fisheye; the rest of the gang waved. Jack waved back; Kieckner buttonholed him. "Ellis Loew wants to see you. Booth number six."
Jack walked down. Loew was staring out a back wall mirror--a lie detector stall across the glass. Polygraph time: Millard questioning Peltz, Ray Pinker working the machine.
Loew noticed him. "I'd rather Mar didn't have to go through that. Can you fix it?"
Protecting a slush-fund contributor. "Ellis, I've got no truck with Millard. If Mar's lawyer advised him to do it, he'll have to do it."
"Can Dudley fix it?"
"Dud's got no truck with him either, Millard's the pious type. And before you ask me, I don't know who killed Sid, and I don't care. Has Max got an alibi?"
"Yes, but one that he would rather not use."
"How old is she?"
"Quite young. Would--"
"Yeah, Russ would file on him for it."
"My God, all this for scum like Hudgens."
Jack laughed. "Counselor, one of his little mudslings got you elected."
"Yes, politics makes for strange bedfellows, but I doubt if he'll be grieved. You know, we've got nothing. I talked to those attorneys outside, and they all assured me their clients have valid alibis. They'll give statements and be eliminated, the rest of the _Badge of Honor_ people will be alibied and then we'll only have the rest of Hollywood to deal with."
An opening. "Ellis, you want some advice?"
"Yes, give me your appropriately cynical view."
"Let it play out. Push on the Nite Owl, that's the one the public wants cleared. Hudgens was shit, the investigation'll be a shit show and we'll never get the killer. Let it play out."
The door opened; Duane Fisk put two thumbs down. "No luck, Mr. Loew. Alibis straight across, and they sound like good ones. The coroner estimated Hudgens' death at midnight to 1:00 A.M., and these people were all in plain view somewhere else. We'll go for corroboration, but I think it's a wipe."
Loew nodded; Fisk walked out. Jack said, "Let it go."
Loew smiled. "What's your alibi? Were you in bed with my sister-in-law?"
"I was in bed alone."
"I'm not surprised--Karen said you've been moody and scarce lately. You look edgy, Jack. Are you afraid your arrangement with Hudgens will be publicized?"
"Millard wants a deposition, I'll give him one. You buy Sid and me as lodge brothers?"
"Of course. Along with Dudley Smith, myself and several other well-known choirboys. You're right on Hudgens, Jack. I'll broach it to Bill Parker."
A yawn--the bennies were losing their kick. "It's a dog of a case, and you don't want to prosecute it."
"Yes, since the victim did facilitate _my_ election, and he might have left word that _you_ leaked word to him on Mr. McPherson's quote dark desires. Jack . . ."
"Yeah, I'll keep my nose down, and if your name turns up on paper I'll destroy it."
"Good man. And if I . . ."
"Yeah, there is something. Track the reports on the investigation. Sid kept some secret dirt files, and if your name's anywhere, it's there. And if I get a lead on where, I'll be there with a match."
Loew, pale. "Done, and I'll talk to Parker this afternoon."
Ray Pinker rapped on the mirror, pressed a graph to the glass: twin needle lines--no wild fluctuations. Out the speaker: "Not guilty, but no give on his alibi. Was he _en flagrante?_"
Loew smiled. Russ Millard, speaker loud. "Go to work, Vincennes. Nite Owl block canvassing, if you recall. Your cockamamie TV show hasn't panned out so far, and I want a written statement on your dealings with Hudgens. _By 0800 tomorrow_."
Darktown beckoned.
o o o
South to 77th. Jack popped another roll and picked up his search map; the desk sergeant told him the spooks were getting feistier, some pinko agitators put a bug up their ass, more garbage attacks, the garage men were going out in threes: one detective, two partrolmen, teams on opposite sides of the street. Meet his guys at 116th and Wills--they'd been one man short since noon.
The bennies kicked in--Jack zoomed back up. He drove to 116 and Wills: a stretch of cinderblock shacks, windows stuffed with cardboard. Dirt alleys, a bicycle brigade: colored kids packing fruit. His guys up ahead: two partrolmen on the left, two blues and a plainclothes on the right. Armed: tin snips, rifles. Jack parked, made the left-side team a threesome.
Pure shitwork.
Knock on the door, get permission to search the garage. Three quarters of the locals played possum; back to the garage, open the door, cut the lock. The right-side team didn't ask--they went in snips first, dawdled, brandished their hardware at the bicycle kids. The left-side kids tried to look mean; one kid chucked a tomato over their heads. The blues fired over his head--taking out a pigeon coop, chewing up a palm tree. Dusty garage after dusty garage after dusty garage--no '49 Mere license DG1 14.
Twilight, a block of deserted houses--broken windows, weed jungle lawns. Jack started feeling punk: achy teeth, chest pings. He heard rebel yells across the street; the right-side team triggered shots. He looked at his partners--then they all tore ass over.
The Holy Grail in a rat-infested garage: a purple '49 Merc, jig rig to the hilt. California license DG114--registcred to Raymond "Sugar Ray" Coates.
Two patrolmen whipped out bottles.
A couple of bicycle kids jabbered: the bonaroo paint job, a white cat hanging around the alley.
The left-side guys broke into a rain dance.
Jack squinted through a side window. Three pump shotguns on the floor between the seats: big bore, probably 12-gauge.
Yells-deafening; back slaps--bonecrusher hard. The kids yelled along; a patrolman let them slug from his bottle. Jack took a big gulp, emptied his gun at a streetlight, got it with his last shot. Whoops, rebel yells; Jack let the kids play quick draw with his piece. Sid Hudgens buzzed him--he took a big drink, chased him away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
A private room at the Pacific Dining Car. Dudley Smith, Ellis Loew, Bud across the table. Blistered hands, three days of hose work: sex offenders blurred in his head.
Dudley said, "Lad, we found the car and the shotguns an hour ago. No prints, but one of the firing pins perfectly matches the nicked shells we found at the Nite Owl. We took the victims' purses and wallets out of a sewer grate near the Tevere Hotel, which means that we have a damn near airtight case. But Mr. Loew and I want the whole hog. We want confessions."
Bud shoved his plate away. It all came back to the spooks-- scotch his shot at Exley. "So you'll put bright boy on the niggers again."
Loew shook his head. "No, Exley's too soft. I want you and Dudley to question them, inside the jail, tomorrow morning. Ray Coates has been in the infirmary with an car infection, but they're releasing him back into general population early tomorrow. I want you and Dud there bright and early, say 7:00."
"What about Carlisle and Breuning?"
Dudley laughed. "Lad, you're a much more frightful presence. This job has the name 'Wendell White' on it, as does another assignment I've kicked off lately. One you'll be interested in."
Loew said, "Officer, it's been Ed Exley's case so far, but now you
can share the glory. And I'll grant you a favor in return."
"Yeah?"
"Yes. Dick Stensland has been handed a six-count probation indictment. Do it, and I'll drop four of those charges and put him in front of a lenient judge. He'll be sentenced to no more than ninety days."
Bud stood up. "Deal, Mr. Loew. And thanks for dinner."
Dudley beamed. "Until 7:00 tomorrow, lad. And why are you leaving so abruptly, is it a hot date you have?"
"Yeah, Veronica Lake."
o o o
She opened the door, all Veronica: spangly gown, blond curl over one eye. "If you'd called first, I wouldn't look this ridiculous."
She looked edgy. Her dye job was off: uneven, dark at the roots. "Bad date?"
"An investment banker Pierce wants to curry favor with."
"Did you fake it good?"
"He was so self-absorbed that I didn't have to fake it." Bud laughed. "You turn thirty, you do it strictly for thrills." Lynn laughed, still edgy, she might touch him first just to have something to do with her hands. "If men don't try to be Alan Ladd, they might get the real Lynn Margaret."
"Worth the wait?"
"You know it is, and you're wondering if Pierce told me to be receptive."
He couldn't think of a comeback.
Lynn took his arm. "I'm glad you thought of that, and I like you. And if you wait in the bedroom I'll scrub off Veronica and that investment banker."
o o o
She came to him naked, a brunette, her hair still wet. Bud forced himself to go slow, take time with his kisses, like she was a lonely woman he wanted to love to death. Lynn played off his timing: her kisses back, her touches. Bud kept thinking she was faking--he rushed to taste her so he'd know.
Lynn moaned, put his hands on her breasts, set up a rhythm for his fmgers. Bud followed her lead, loved it when she gasped and came over and over, hair-trigger. Real--so real he forgot about himself, he heard something like "In me, please in me." He rubbed himself hard on the bed, went in her, kept his hands on her breasts like she taught him. Hard inside her--he let himself go just as her legs pulsed and her hips pushed him up off the sheets--then his face pressing wet hair, their arms locked on each other tight.
They rested, talked. Lynn talked up her diary: a thousand pages back to high school in Bisbee, Arizona. Bud rambled on the Nite Owl, his strongarm job in the morning--sitting-duck stuff he couldn't take much more of. Lynn's look said, "Then just give it up"; he didn't have an answer, so he spieled on Dudley, the heartbreaker rape girl with a crush on him, how he'd hoped the Nite Owl would swing another way so he could use itto juke this guy he hated. Lynn talked back with little touches; Bud told her he was letting the Kathy snuff go for now, it was too easy to go crazy on--crazy like his play with Dwight Gilette. Lynn pressed on his family; he told her "I don't have one"; he ran down his outlaw job: Cathcart, his pad tossed, his smut dream, the San Berdoo Yellow Pages open to printshops clicking in to the Englekling brothers plea bargain, then clicking out, back to the colored punks they had on ice. He knew she knew the gist: he was frustrated because he wasn't that smart, he wasn't really a Homicide detective--he was the guy they brought in to scare other guys shitless. After a while, the talk petered out--Bud felt restless, pissed at himself for spilling too much too fast. Lynn seemed to sense it: she bent down and drove him crazy with her mouth. Bud stroked her hair, still a little wet, glad she didn't have to fake it with him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Evidence--the victims' belongings found near the Tevere Hotel; Coates' Mere and the shotguns located: forensic verification on the piece that shot the strangely marked rounds. No grand jury on earth would refuse to hand down Murder One. The Nite Owl case was made.
Ed at his kitchen table, writing a report: Parker's last summary. Inez in the bedroom, her bedroom now, he couldn't get up the nerve to say: "Just let me sleep with you, we'll see how things go, wait on the other." She'd been moody--reading books on Raymond Dieterling, getting up nerve to ask the man for a job. The news on the guns didn't bolster her--even though it meant no testimony. Evidence--her outside wounds had healed, there was no physical pain to distract her. She kept feeling it happen.
The phone rang; Ed grabbed it. An extra click--Inez picking up in the bedroom.
"Hello?"
"Russ Millard, Ed."
"Captain, how are you?"
"It's Russ to sergeants and up, son."
"Russ, have you heard about the car and the guns? The Nite Owl's history."
"Not exactly, and that's why I called. I just talked to a Sheriff's lieutenant I know, a man on the Jail Bureau. He told me he heard a rumor. Dudley Smith's taking Bud White in to beat confessions out of our boys. Tomorrow morning, early. I had them moved to another cellblock where they can't get at them."
"Jesus Christ."
"The savior indeed. Son, I have a plan. We go in early, confront them with the new evidence and try for legitimate confessions. You play the bad guy, I'll play savior."
Ed squared his glasses. "What time?"
"Say 7:00?"
"All right."
"Son, it means making an enemy out of Dudley."
The bedroom line clicked off. "So be it. Russ, I'll see you tomorrow."
"Sleep well, son. I need you alert."
Ed hung up. Inez in the doorway, wearing his robe--huge on her. "You can't do this to me."
"You shouldn't eavesdrop."
"I was expecting a call from my sister. Exley, you can't."
"You wanted them in the gas chamber, they're going there. You didn't want to testify, now I doubt if you'll have to."
"I want them hurt. I want them to suffer."
"No. It's wrong. This is a case that demands absolute justice."
She laughed. "Absolute justice fits you like this robe fits me, _pendejo_."
"You got what you wanted, Inez. Let it go at that and get on with your life."
"What life? Living with you? You'll never marry me, you're so deferential around me that I want to scream and every time I've got myself convinced you're a pretty decent guy you do something that makes me say, '_Madre mia_, how can I be so dumb?' And now you'd deny me this? _This little thing?_"
Ed held up his report. "Dozens of men built this case. Those animals will be dead by Christmas. _Todos_, Inez. _Absolutamente_. Isn't that enough?"
She laughed--harder. "No. Ten seconds and they go to sleep. Six hours they beat me and fucked me and stuck things in me. No, it's not enough."
Ed stood up. "So you'll let Bud White jeopardize our case. Ellis Loew probably arranged this, Inez. He's thinking airtight grand jury presentation, a two day trial with half of it him grandstanding. He'd jeopardize what he's already got for that. Be smart and recognize it."
"No, you recognize that the fix is in. The _negritos_ die because that's the way it is. I'm just a witness nobody needs anymore, so maybe tomorrow Officer White takes a few licks for my justice."•
Ed made fists. "White's a brutal disgrace of a policeman and a slimy, womanizing son of a bitch."
"No, he's just a guy who calls a spade a spade and doesn't look six ways before he crosses the street."
"He's shit. _Mierda_."
"Then he's my _mierda_. Exley, I _know_ you. You don't give a damn about justice, you just care about yourself. You're only doing that thing tomorrow to hurt Officer White, and you're only doing it because you know that he knows what you are. You treat me like you want to love me, then you give me nothing but money and social connections, which you've got plenty of and won't miss. You take no risks for me, and Officer White risks his estüpido life and doesn't weigh the consequences, and when I get better you'll want to fuck me and set me up someplace where you won't have to be seen in public with me, which is revolting to me, and if for no other reason I love _estupido_ Officer White because at least he has the sense to know what you are."
Ed walked up to her. "And what am I?"
"Just a run-of-the-mill coward."
Ed raised
a fist, flinched when she flinched. Inez pulled off her robe. Ed looked, looked away--at the wall and his framed army medals. A target--he threw them across the room. Not enough. He took a bead on a window, reared back, hit soft padded curtains instead.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Jack woke up seeing smut.
Karen in orgy shots--Veronica Lake loving her. Blood: fuck pix as coroner's pix, beautiful women drenched red. The first real thing he saw was daybreak--then Bud White's car parked by Lynn Bracken's pad.
Cracked lips, bone aches head to toe. He swallowed his last bcnnies, brought back his last thoughts before oblivion.
Nothing in the files, Patchett and Bracken his only Hudgens leads. Patchett had servants living in. Bracken lived alone--he'd brace her when White left her bed.
Jack brainstormed a tailing report--lies to snow Dudley Smith. A door slammed--a sound like a gunshot. Bud White walked to his car.
Jack hit the seat prone. The car pulled away, seconds, another gunshot/door slam. A quick look: a brunette Lynn Bracken heading out.
Over to her car, up to Los Feliz, east. Jack followed: the right lane, dawdling back. Sparse early morning traffic: call the woman too distracted to spot him.
Due cast, into Glendale. North on Brand, a swerve to the curb in front of a bank. Jack pulled around the corner to a sighting point--the corner store, a grocer's--milk cartons stacked by the door.
He squatted down, watched the sidewalk. Lynn B. was talking to a man: nervous, a shaky little guy. He opened the bank and hustled her in; a Ford and Dodge were parked further down--no way to nail plate numbers. Lamar Hinton walked outside lugging boxes.
Files, files, files--it had to be.
Bracken and the bank geek hauled boxes: a run to the Dodge and Lynn's Packard. The geek locked up the bank, hit the Ford and U-turned southbound; Hinton and Bracken formed a chain--separate cars heading north.
Seconds tick tick tick--Jack counted to ten, chased.