Johnny and Junior--fur-job filthy--maybe more. Junior--would-be "Dope Kingpin"--extorting THEM. Me--this crazed peeper chaser-- THEY wanted HIM.
I could plead evidence:
My Jap sword and five grand on a bookshelf.
My hit fee--common insider knowledge.
My sword--common knowledge--I killed a shitload of Japs with it and won the Navy Cross.
I could plead linkage:
I knew Junior/Junior knew Johnny/I fucked with the Kafesjians/Junior fucked with them/Johnny fucked with them directly or indirectly-- directly or indirectly due to crazy faggot Junior Stemmons/Johnny called me to plead out or buy out like I'm pleading out now/the Kafesjians made me kill him--they made me a movie star.
Home movie time.
Splicing and developing time--who did the work?
Dave Klein left alive--movie killer. Time ticking, two ways it could go:
Straight coercion: desist on the peeper.
Fed/LAPD screenings: countless angles.
I could plead theories:
Say Johnny called me legit.
Say _he_ kept the meet quiet.
_I_ told Bob Gallaudet about it; I told Chick Vecchio--obliquely.
Chick knew my clip fee.
Chick knew my sword.
Chick knew THEM--or people who did.
Chick knew Junior was fucking with the Kafesjians.
Chick tips THEM off.
99% sure-I was coerced into killing Johnny Duhamel.
1% doubt--I'm a murderer.
My closing plea:
I don't like it.
I shaved and showered. Haggard, new gray hair--forty-two going on dead. Burn tickles toweling off--dry ice coaxed my performance. My sword, five grand--fear tactics.
Invest that money--
I called Hughes Aircraft--Pete picked up.
"Bondurant."
"Dave Klein, Pete."
Caught short: "You _never_ call me here. This is work, right?"
"Five grand's worth."
"Split?"
"Your share."
"Then this isn't a police gig like last time."
"No, this is a muscle job on a hard boy."
"You're good at that by yourself."
"It's Chick Vecchio, and I know about that shakedown deal you're working with him and Touch. I want to play an angle on it."
"And you're not gonna tell me how you found out about it."
"Right."
"And if I say no, you're not gonna spoil it for us."
"Right."
"And you figured you by yourself, Chick might not fold, but both of us he would."
"Right."
Knuckle pops on his end--Pete thinking angles.
"Go to seven and answer a few questions."
"Seven."
_Pop, pop_--ugly. "So what's the beef?"
"Chick put me in shit with the Kafesjians."
"So clip him. That's more your style."
"I need a snitch."
"Chick's a tough boy."
"Seven. Yes or no."
_Pop, pop_--phone static--killer hands. "Yes with a condition, because I always thought Chick was essentially a greasy wop fuck, and because Mickey changed his mind and told him and Touch not to do this sex gig. I figure Mickey was always nice to me, so I'm doing him a solid he can pay back if he ever quits this movie-mogul shit and starts behaving like a white man again. Now, what's the angle?"
"Straight strongarm, with dirt on Chick himself--in case he runs to Sam Giancana. Chick's Outfit, and the Outfit doesn't like this kind of extortion."
"So you want to catch him at it. I bring my camera, we go from there."
"Right. _If_ we don't have to wait too long."
Knuckle pops--
"Pete, come on."
"I need two days."
"Fuck."
"Fuck nothing, Chick's set to bed down Joan fucking Crawford. Now _that_ is worth waiting for."
Movie stars/movie time-Johnny begging.
"All right. Two days."
"There's that condition, Klein."
"What?"
"If it looks like Chick's thinking revenge, then we clip him."
"Agreed."
o o o
Walking air--tunnel vision--peripheral grass.
Side doorways.
Mirrored walls.
Gray herringbones--a coat?
I drove down to Lynwood--crowding the speed limit.
Aviation and Hibiscus first--that pay phone. Feed the slot, use it:
PC Bell said _outgoing_ booth calls weren't tallied.
Sid Riegle said his suicide queries yielded zero.
4980 Spindrift--still abandoned. The downstairs-left unit--unlocked.
Four empty rooms--like Johnny never showed up there.
Rainy that night, sunny now. I made street circuits--nothing clicked. Vacant bungalow courts--whole blocks of them.
Treading air that night--like I was carried. Grass, side doorways, a right turn.
Maybe: a courtyard right-side room--movie time.
Wet that night, sunny now--maybe dried footprints on grass.
GO--
Six blocks--thirty-odd courts. Epidemic crabgrass--weedy dry, no footprints. Right-side doors--boarded/nailed/locked----dusty, no fresh entry marks.
Johnny laughed: "Why Lynwood, Dave?"
More street circuits--empty courtyards forever.
Fuck.
o o o
Downtown to Central Records. Their burglary file vault-crime sheets back to '50.
Agent Milner:
"We heard Tommy's been looking for a guy named Richie. We've got no last name, but we heard that he and Tommy used to play jazz together and pull B&E's."
Tommy's rap sheet--undoubtedly expunged. Richie Something-- maybe not.
GO--
Male adults--four cabinets' worth--no "Richard"-derivation Caucasians. Juvie--seven Richards--five Negro, two white--porkers topping out 250.
"Unsolved"--adult/juvie--hodgepodge stuff. '50 and up, bad typing--I got eyestrain. Tilt--11/6/51:
Music Man Murray's, 983 N. Weyburn, Westwood Village. Trumpets stolen and recovered: traced to unnamed juvies. No arrests, two kid suspects--"Tommy," "Richie"--no surnames. The detective assigned: Sgt. M.D. Breuning, West L.A. Squad.
Three more cabinets--no Tommy/Richie extant.
Easy to extrapolate:
Strongarm Breuning works a chump 459. He blows the job and gets nudged: Tommy's J.C. Kafesjian's son.
Do it--eat dirt.
I called Robbery first--"Breuning's out." 77th ditto-try the Victory Motel.
"Mobster Squad, Carlisle."
"Sergeant, it's Dave Klein."
Breath flutters--"Yeah, what is it?"
"Look, I'm sorry about that trouble with Lester Lake."
"Sure. You side with a nigger over two... Shit, all right, he was your snitch. Look, you want Dudley? He's out."
"Is Breuning in?"
"He's with Dud. What is it?"
"It's an old juvie 459 Breuning worked. November '51. Have Mike call me, all right?"
"Mike? Sure, _Dave_"--slam/dial tone.
Tapping out.
My best move now--tail THEM.
My worst move-they'd spot me.
My best nightmare: THEY approach ME. Movie time explained: threats, offers--at least I'd know WHY.
Darktown by default--go, let things happen.
o o o
Familiar now--synced to music in my head. Familiar faces staring back: black, sullen. Slow cruising, two-way-radio sputter:
County calls--no Johnny John Doe talk. No Miciak, no Bido's--halfass comforting.
I tapped the glove box--no candy--just dope stashed and forgotten. Hiss, crackle-a gang fight at Jordan High.
North--a run by THEIR house--Fed surveillance thick. Sax noiseWill Shipstad wearing earplugs.
Radio hum--my soundtrack for Johnny begging. North on instinct overdrive: Chavez Ravine.
Feds thick--I stuck to the
car. Check the view:
Eviction papers tacked door to door. A face-off: Commie geeks and pachucos. Earthmovers, dump trucks--LAPD guards standing by.
More:
The main drag cordoned off: Reuben Ruiz dancing a samba. Fans pressing close, wet-eyed women. Fed bodyguards--disgusted.
Two-way boom:
"Code 3 all units vicinity 249 South ARDEN repeat 249 South ARDEN multiple homicides 249 South ARDEN Detective units Roger your locations 249 South ARDEN on-call Homicide units that vicinity Roger your locations!"
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Rolling Code 3.
South Arden/Joseph Arden/street name/trick name. A Hancock Park address-- affluent--a strong maybe.
"Request animal disposal unit 249 South Arden. Be advised all units now standing."
I hit the mike: "4-ADAM-31 to Bureau base urgent. Over."
"Roger, 4-A-31."
"Urgent. Repeat urgent. Lieutenant D.D. Klein seeking Chief Exley. Over."
"Roger, 4-A-31."
Makeshift code: "Urgent. Advise Chief Exley homicides at 249 South Arden likely _major_ case connected. Request permission to seal under IA autonomy. Urgent that you find Chief Exley. Over."
"Roger, 4-A-31. State your location."
"3rd and Mariposa westbound. Over."
Dead air, speeding--
"4-A-31, please Roger."
"Roger, this is 4-A-31."
"4-A-31, assume command 249 South Arden IA autonomy. Over."
"4-A-3 1, Roger, over."
3rd westbound--siren earaches. Arden Boulevard--right turn, right there:
A big Tudor house swamped--prowl cars, morgue cars.
Civilian cliques on the sidewalk--nervous.
Ice cream trucks, kids.
I jammed in curbside. Two brass hats on the porch, looking queasy.
I ran up. One lieutenant, one captain--green. A hedge behind them dripping vomit.
"Ed Exley wants this sealed: no press, no downtown Homicide. I'm in charge, and IA's bagging the evidence."
Nods--queasy--nobody said, "Who are you?"
"Who found them?"
The captain: "Their mailman called it in. He had a special-delivery package, and he wanted to leave it at the side door. The dogs didn't bark like they usually do, and he saw blood on a window."
"He ID'd them?"
"Right. It's a father and two daughters. Phillip Herrick, Laura and Christine. The mother's dead--the mailman said she killed herself earlier this year. Hold your nose when you--"
In--smell it--blood. Flashbulbs, gray suits--I pushed through.
The entrance foyer floor: two dead shepherds belly-up, dripping mouth foam. Tools nearby--spade/shears/pitchfork--bloody.
Meat scraps/drool/puke trails.
Stabbed and cut and forked--entrail piles soaking a throw rug.
I squatted down and pried their jaws loose--tech men gasped.
Washrags in their mouths--stelfactiznide-chloride-soaked.
Match it up--Kafesjian 459.
Walk/look/think--plainclothesmen gave me room:
The front hallway--broken records/tossed covers. Christmas jazz wax-confirm the Mom-peeper letters.
The dining room:
Booze bottles and portraits smashed--another K.-job match. _Family pictures_: a dad and two daughters.
Mom to peeper: "Your sisters."
Suicide talk/suicide confirmation.
A tech stampede-follow it--the den.
Three dead on the floor: one male, two female.
Details:
Their eyes shot out--powder-black cheeks, exit spatter.
Ripped cushions on a chair--bullet mufflers.
Shears, chainsaw, axe--bloody, propped in a corner.
The rug--soaked bubbling.
His pants down.
Castrated--his penis in an ashtray.
The women:
Cut/sawed/snipped--limbs dangling by skin shreds.
Bloody walls, windows sprayed--kids looking in.
Artery gout red: the floor, the ceiling, the walls. Plainclothesmen oozing shell shock.
A framed photo spritzed: handsome daddy, grown daughters.
Peeper kin.
"Fuuuck"/"My God"/Hail Marys. I skirted the blood and checked access.
Rear hall, back door, steps--jimmy marks, meat scraps, drool.
One high-heel pump just inside.
Work it:
He pries in quiet, throws the meat, waits outside.
The dogs smell it, eat it, quease.
He walks in.
Shoots Herrick.
Finds the tools, kills the dogs.
The girls come home, see the door, run in. One shoe lost--scattered tools--he hears them.
CRAAAZY shooting/mutilation--leaded windows kill the noise.
Homicide/symbolic destruction--he probably didn't steal.
Snap guess: the girls showed up unexpected.
I looked outside--trees, shrubs--hiding spots. No blood drip--say he stole clean clothes.
Blues and a mailman smoking--brace them. "Did the Herricks have a son?"
The mailman nodded. "Richard. He escaped from Chino something like September of last year. He went up on dope charges."
Mom--"pen pals/same city"--lamster Richie explained it. "Spurred you/rash thing"--he waltzed minimum-security Chino.
Nervous blues jabbering: Richie caught/convicted/gassed--their instant suspect.
Killer Richie?--NO--think it through:
The Red Arrow Inn--Richie's peep spot B&E'd. His bed ripped--with Kafesjian 459 silver. Dead cert--this killer/that burglar--one man-- broken bottle/smashed record/snuffed dog confirmation. Richie-- passive watcher--someone watching and pressing him. Tommy K. chasing him outright, flirt with the notion: Tommy stone psycho, Tommy trashes his own house, now THIS.
Back inside:
Blood drops--dark, fading--the main hallway off the den. I followed them upstairs--red into pink, a bathroom--stop.
Floor water--the toilet bowl full--a knife floating in piss water. Pink water in the shower, bloody hair clots.
Reconstruct it:
Bloody clothes ripped and flushed--the toilet floods. A shower then?--check the towel rack--one towel sodden.
Recent--broad-daylight killings.
I checked the hallway--wet footprint indentations on the carpet. Easy tracks--straight to a bedroom.
Drawers open, clothes scattered. A wallet on the floor--turned out, no cash.
A driver's license: Phillip Clark Herrick, DOB 5/14/06. The ID pic: "Fuck me Daddy" bland handsome.
Wallet sleeves--a photo--Lucille naked. A fake license: Joseph Arden--Herrick stats, a fake address.
I checked the window: South Arden was roped off. Bluesuit cordons held reporters back.
Other bedrooms--
One hallway, three doors. Two open--girlish bedrooms--undisturbed. One door locked--I shoulder-popped it.
A snap make: Richie's room preserved.
Neat, mothball-reeking.
Jazz posters.
Books: music bios, sax theory.
Kid-type paintings: Lucille softened, demure.
A graduation pic: Richie, peeper sketch perfect.
Doors slamming-check the window--IA swarming in.
Lucille--idealized, a madonna.
Books: all jazz.
Funny--no tech stuff--and Richie knew bugging.
Running footsteps--Exley in my face, catching breath. "You should be downstairs. Ray Pinker briefed me, but I wanted your interpretation first."
"There's nothing to interpret. It's Richie Herrick, or it's the guy who broke into his motel room. Check my early reports, I mentioned him then."
"I remember. And you've been avoiding me. I told you to call me after you forensic'd Stemmons' apartment."
"There was nothing to report."
"Where have you been?"
"People keep asking me that."
"That's not an answer."
Bloody wing tips--he g
ot close.
"So what now? That's a question."
"I'm issuing an APB on Richard Herrick."
"Think it over first. I don't _think_ this is him."
"You obviously want me to prompt you. _So_, Lieutenant?"
"So I think we should haul in Tommy K. I've got a strong tip that he's been looking for Richie Herrick. Richie's a damn good hider, but Tommy _knows_ him. He's got a better chance of finding him than we do."
"No direct approach on the Kafesjians. And I am issuing that APB, because the Kafesjians are under blanket Fed surveillance, which somewhat impedes their ability to search for Herrick. Moreover, these deaths are front-page news. Herrick will read about them and act even more furtively. We can only control the press so far."
"Yeah, which must really gall you."
"Frankly, it does. Now surprise me or anticipate me. Tell me something I don't know."
I jabbed his vest--hard. "Johnny Duhamel's dead. He's a Sheriff's John Doe down near Compton, and I think you two are dirty together. You're running me on the Kafesjians, and it ties in to Duhamel. I'm not thinking so straight these days, and I'm getting to the point where I'm going to fuck you for it."
Exley stepped back. "You're detached to Homicide and in charge of this investigation. You can do anything you want except approach the Kafesjians."
Chimes streetside--ice cream trucks.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
3rd Street, Bureau bound. A stoplight at Normandie-- Plymouths cut me off and boxed me in.
Four cars--Feds piled out aiming shotguns. Radio mike loud: "You are under arrest. Get out with your hands up."
I killed the engine, set the brake, complied. Slooow: grip the roof, arms spread.
Swamped/frisked/cuffed-crew-cut shitbirds loving it.
Milner poked me. "Reuben Ruiz said he saw you dump Johnson."
Three men tossed my car. A skinny hump checked the glove compartment.
"Milner, look. Looks like white horse to me!"
Lying snitch fuck Ruiz.
Heroin jammed in my face.
o o o
Downtown--the Fed Building--manhandled upstairs. Shoved into an office--
Four walls paper-draped--graph lines visible underneath.
Noonan and Shipstad waiting.
Milner sat me down; Shipstad took my cuffs off. My dope passed Fed to Fed--whistles all around.
Noonan: "Too bad Junior Stemmons is dead. He could have been your alibi on Johnson."
"You mean you _know_ Ruiz is lying? You _know_ he was sleeping when Johnson jumped?"