L.A. Confidential

First glitch: Spade couldn't have a jacket, no way to check his blood type--he rode in Sheriff Biscailuz' volunteer posse--P.R. stuff--nobody with a yellow sheet allowed.

Keep grabbing, check the M.E.'s report, "Bloodstream Contents." Page 2, a scorcher--"undigested foodstuffs, semen, a heavily narcotizing amount of food-dispersed opium further verified by tar residue in teeth."

Bud threw his arms up-like he could reach through the roof and haul down the moon. He banged the ceiling, came back to earth thinking--this was not a solo job, he was hiding out from Exley, Dudley just didn't care. He saw a phone, hit the ceiling, came down with a partner:

Ellis Loew--sex murders made him drool.

He grabbed the phone.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

Hilda Lefferts tapped a mugshot. "There, that's Susan Nancy's beau. Will you take me home now?"

Bingo--a pudgy hardcase type, a real Duke Cathcart lookalike. Dean NMI Van Gelder, W.M., DOB 3/4/21. 5'8¾", 178 lbs., blue eyes, brown hair. One armed-robbery bounce--6/42-- ten to twenty, released from Folsom 6/52, full minimum sentence topped--no parole. No further arrests--chalk it up to Bud White's theory--Van Gelder got it at the Nite Owl.

Hilda said, "That's it--_Dean_. Susan Nancy called him 'Dean,' but he said, 'No, get used to calling me "Duke.""'

Jack said, "You sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. Six hours of looking at these awful pictures and you ask me if I'm sure? If I wanted to lie I would have pointed somebody out hours ago. _Please_, Officer. First you fmd a body under my house, next you subject me to these pictures. Now will you please take me home?"

Jack shook his head no. Work it: Who? to Van Gelder to Cathcart to the Nite Owl. One parlay made sense--the Englekling brothers to Cathcart to a brush with Mickey Cohen--in stir back in '53. He picked up the phone, dialed 0.

"Operator."

"Operator, this is a police emergency. I need to be put through to somebody in administration at McNeil Federal Penitentiary, Puget Sound, Washington."

"I see. And your name?"

"Sergeant Vincennes, Los Angeles Police Department. Tell them I'm on a homicide investigation."

"I see. Circuits to Wasington State have been--"

"Shit. I'm at MAdison 60042. Will you--"

"I'll try your call now, sir."

Jack hung up. Forty seconds by the wall clock--_bbring brinng_.

"Vincennes."

"Deputy Warden Cahill at McNeil. This pertains to a homicide?"

Hilda Lefferts was pouting--Jack turned away from her. "Yeah, and all I need's one answer. Got a pencil?"

"Of course."

"Okay. I need to know if a white male named Dean Van Gelder, that's two separate words on the last name, visited an inmate at McNeil say from February through April 1953. All I need's a yes or no and the names of any inmates he visited."

A sigh. "All right, please hold. This may take a while."

Jack held counting minutes--Cahill came back on at twelve plus. "That's a positive. Dean Van Gelder, DOB 3/4/2 1, visited inmate David Goldman on three occasions: 3/27/53, 4/1/53 and 4/3/53. Goldman was at McNeil on tax charges. Perhaps you've heard--"

Work in Davey G.--Mickey Cohen's man. Work in Van Gelder's last visit--two weeks before the Nite Owl, the same time the Englekling brothers lubed Mickey--the meet where they spilled the smut plan. The prison man kept babbling--Jack hung up on him. The Nite Owl case started to shake.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

Ed drove Lynn Bracken home, a last shot before having her arrested. She protested, then went along: her day of truth dope, counterdope and browbeating showed--she looked frazzled, exhausted. Call her smart, strong and chemically fortified; she gave up nothing but Pierce Patchett crumbs--however she managed it. Patchett knew a whitewash wouldn't wash; Lynn funneled out her call girl tale--and Patchett had to have lawyers waiting in case that crumb went to indictments. Reopening day one was pure insane: Dudley Smith up in Gaitsville while his hot dogs shook down Darktown; Vincennes' body under the house and his ID on Dean Van Gelder--Davey Goldman's McNeil visitor pre--Nite Owl. Bud White for a runner, then his _Whisper_ leak breaking--he was a fool to trust him for a second. All of that he could take: he was a professional detective used to dealing with chaos.

But the Atherton case and his father circuiting in was something else. Now he felt suspended, one simple instinct running him: the Nite Owl had a life past any detective's volition--and the will to make its horror known whether he was there to probe evidence or not, whether he was capable of forming plans or just hanging on for the ride.

He had a plan to work Bracken and Patchett.

Lynn blew smoke rings out the window. "Down two blocks and turn left. You can stop there, I'm right near the corner."

Ed braked short. "One last question. At the Bureau you implied that you knew Patchett and Sid Hudgens were planning to work an extortion racket."

"I don't recall endorsing that statement."

"You didn't dispute it."

"I was tired and bored."

"You endorsed it, implicitly. And it's in Jack Vincennes' deposition."

"Then perhaps Vincennes lied about that part. He used to be quite a celebrity. Wouldn't you also call him quite a selfdramatist?"

An opening. "Yes."

"And do you think you can trust him?"

Fake chagrin oozing. "I don't know. He's my weak point."

"So there you are. Mr. Exley, are you going to arrest me?"

"I'm beginning to think it wouldn't do any good. What did White say when he told you to come in for questioning?"

"Just to come clean. Did you show him Vincennes' deposition?"

The truth--make her grateful. "No."

"I'm glad, because I'm sure it's full of lies. Why didn't you show it to him?"

"Because he's a limited detective, and the less he knows the better. He's also a protégé of a rival officer on the case, and I didn't want him passing information to him."

"Are you speaking of Dudley Smith?"

"Yes. Do you know him?"

"No, but Bud speaks of him often. I think he's afraid of him, which means that Smith must be quite a man."

"Dudley's brilliant and vicious to the core, but I'm better. And look, it's late."

"Can I give you a drink?"

"Why? You spat in my face today."

"Well, given the circumstances."

Her smile made his smile easy. "Given the circumstances, one drink."

Lynn got out of the car. Ed watched her move: high heels, a shit day--but her feet hardly touched the ground. She led him to her building, unlocked the bottom door and hit a light.

Ed walked in. Exquisite--the fabrics, the art. Lynn kicked off her shoes and poured brandies; Ed sat on a sofa--pure velvet.

Lynn joined him. Ed took his drink, sipped. Lynn warmed the glass with her hands. "Do you know why I invited you in?"

"You're too inteffigent to try to wrangle a deal, so I'll guess you're just curious about me."

"Bud hates you more than he loves me or anyone else. I'm beginning to see why."

"I don't really want your opinion."

"I was leading up to a compliment."

"Some other time, all right?"

"I'll change the subject then. How's Inez Soto handling the publicity? She's been all over the papers."

"She's taking it poorly, and I don't want to talk about her."

"It galls you that I know so much about you. You don't have information to compete."

Move the wedge. "I have Vincennes' deposition."

"Which I suspect you doubt the truth of."

Throw the change-up. "You mentioned that Patchett financed some early Raymond Dieterling films. Can you elaborate on that?"

"'Why? Because your father is associated with Dieterling? You see the disadvantages of being the son of a famous man?"

No hink, a deft touch with the knife. "Just a policeman's question."

Lynn shrugged. "Pierce mentioned it to me in passing several years ago."

The phone rang--Lynn ignored it. "I can tell you don't want to talk about Jack Vincennes."

"I can tell you do."

"I haven't seen much in the news about him lately."

"That's because he flushed everything he had down the toilet. _Badge of Honor_, his friendship with Miller Stanton, all of it. Sid Hudgens getting murdered didn't help, since _Hush-Hush_ owed half its filth to Vincennes' shakedowns."

Lynn sipped brandy. "You don't like Jack."

"No, but there's part of his deposition that I believe absolutely. Patchett has carbons of Sid Hudgens' private dirt files, including a carbon of a file on Vincennes himself. You can do yourself some good by acknowledging it."

If she bit she'd start now.

"I can't acknowledge it, and the next time we speak I'll have a lawyer. But I can tell you that I think I know what such a file would contain."

First wedge in place. "And?"

"Well, I think the year was 1947. Vincennes got involved in a gunfight at the beach. He was under the influence of narcotics and shot and killed two innocent people, a husband and wife. My source has verification, including the testimony of an ambulance deputy and a notarized statement from the doctor who treated Jack for his wounds. My source has blood test results that show the drugs in his system and testimony from eyewitnesses who didn't come forth. Is that information you'd suppress to protect a brother officer, Captain?"

The Malibu Rendezvous: Trashcan's glory job. The phone rang--Lynn let it go. Ed said, "Jesus Christ," no need to fake.

"Yes. You know, when I read about Vincennes I always thought he had some very dark reasons for persecuting dope users, so I wasn't surprised when I found that out. And, Captain? If Pierce did have file carbons, I'm sure he would have destroyed them."

Her last bit rang fake--Ed played a lie off it. "I know Jack loves dope, it's been a rumor around the Bureau for years. And I know you're lying about the files and I know Vincennes would do anything to get his file back. You and Patchett shouldn't underestimate him."

"The way you've underestimated Bud White?"

Her smile came on like a target--he thought for a second that he'd hit her. She laughed before he could; he leaned in and kissed her instead. Lynn pulled back, then kissed back; they rolled to the floor shedding clothes. The phone rang--Ed kicked it off the hook. Lynn pulled him inside her; they rolled, moved together, trashed furniture. It ended as fast as it started--he could feel Lynn reaching to peak. Seconds apart for that, good enough, rest. His story laid out between sighs, like it was a burden too heavy to carry.

Rogue cop Jack Vincennes, on dope and too hot to handle. He'd do anything to get his file back, he had to get that file. Captain E. J. Exley had to use him for what he knew--but Vincennes was doped up, boozed up, going psycho on him--

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

Bud hit L.A. at dawn, off the midnight bus down from Frisco. His city looked strange, new--like everything else in his life.

He got a taxi and dozed; he kept snapping awake to Ellis Loew: "It sounds like a great case, but multiple homicides are tricky and Spade Cooley is a well-known figure. I'll put a D.A.'s Bureau team on it and _you stay out of it for now_." Cut to Lynn: calls, the phone off the hook, smothered. Strange, but like her--when she wanted to sleep she wanted to sleep.

He couldn't believe his life, it was just too goddamn amazing.

The cab dropped him off. He found a note on his door-- "Sergeant Duane W. Fisk" on the letterhead.

Sgt. White--

Captain Exley wants to see you immediately (something pertaining to _Whisper_ magazine and a body under a house). Report to l.A. immediately upon your return to Los Angeles.

Bud laughed, packed a bag: clothes, his paper stash--the hooker killings, the Nite Owl--Dudley's for the asking. He threw the note in the toilet, pissed on it.

o o o

He drove to Gardena, checked into the Victory: a room with clean sheets, a hot plate, no bloodstains on the walls. Fuck sleep-he fixed coffee, worked.

Everything he knew on Spade Cooley--half a longhand page.

Cooley was an Okie fiddler/singer, a skinny guy, maybe late forties. He had a couple of hit records, his TV show was big for a while. His bass player, Burt Arthur Perkins, a.k.a. "Deuce," did time on a chain gang for sodomy on dogs and was rumored to have a shitload of mob K.A.'s.

On the investigation:

Lamar Hinton said Spade smoked opium; Spade played the Lariat Room in Frisco--across from Chrissie Renfro's place of death. Chrissie died with "0" in her system; Spade was currently playing the El Rancho Kiub in L.A., close by Lynette Ellen Kendrick's apartment. Lamar Hinton said Dwight Gilette--Kathy Janeway's old pimp-supplied whores for Cooley's parties.

Circumstantial--but tight.

A phone wired to the wall--Bud grabbed it, called the County Coroner's Office.

"Medical Examinations, Jensen."

"Sergeant White for Dr. Harris. I know he's busy, but tell him it's just one thing."

"Hold, please," click, click, click. "Sergeant, what is it this time?"

"One thing off your autopsy report."

"You're not even a county officer."

"Stomach and bloodstream contents on Lynette Kendrick. Come on, huh?"

"That's easy, because Kendrick won our best stomach award last week. Are you ready? Frankfurters with sauerkraut, french fries, Coca-Cola, opium, sperm. Jesus, what a last supper."

Bud hung up. Ellis Loew said stay out of it. Kathy Janeway said GO.

o o o

He drove to the Strip, put the M.O. together.

First the El Rancho Klub, closed, "Spade Cooley and His Cowboy Rhythm Band Appearing Nitely." A publicity still by the door: Spade, Deuce Perkins, three other cracker types. No heavily ringed fingers; a lead rubber-stamped at the bottom: "Represented by Nat Penzler Associates, 653 North La Cienega, Los Angeles."

Across the street: the Hot Dog Hut, kraut dogs and fries on the menu. Down the Strip by Crescent Heights: a well-known prostie stroll. A mile south at Melrose and Sweetzer: Lynette Ellen Kendrick's apartment.

Easy:

Spade picked her up late, no witnesses. He had the food and the dope, suggested a cozy all-nighter, took Lynette home. They got high, chowed down--Spade beat her to death, raped her three times postmortem.

Bud hooked south to La Cienega. 653: a redwood A-frame, "Nat Penzler Assoc." by the mailbox. The door propped open; a girl inside making coffee.

Bud walked in. The girl said, "Yes, can I help you?"

"The boss around?"

"Mr. Penzler's on the telephone. Can I help you?"

One connecting door--"N.P." brass-stamped. Bud pushed it open; an old man yelled, "Hey! I'm on a call! What are you, a bill collector? Hey, Gail! Give this clown a magazine!"

Bud flashed his badge. The man hung up the phone, pushed back from his desk. Bud said, "You're Nat Penzler?"

"Call me Natsky. Are you looking for representation? I could get you work playing thugs. You have that Neanderthal look currently in vogue."

Let it go. "You're Spade Cooley's agent, right?"

"Right. You want to join Spade's band? Spade's a moneymaker, but my shvartze cleaning lady sings better than him, so maybe I can get you a spot, a bouncer gig at the El Rancho at least. Lots of trim there, boychik. A moose like you could get reamed, steamed and dry-cleaned."

"You through, pops?"

Penzler flushed. "Mr. Natsky to you, caveman."

Bud shut the door. "I need to see Cooley's booking records going back to '51. You want to do this nice or not?"

Penzler got up, blocked his filing cabinets. "Showtime's over, Godzilla. I never divulge client information, even under threat of a subpoena. So amscray and come back for lunch sometime, say on the twelfth of never."

Bud tore the phone cord from the wall; Penzler slid the top drawer open. "No rough stuff, please, caveman! I do my best work with my face!"

Bud thumbed folders, hit "Cooley, Donnell Clyde," dumped it on the desk. A picture hit the blotter: Spade, four rings on ten fingers. Pink sheets, white sheets, then blue sheets--booking records clipped by year.

Penzler stood by muttering. Bud matched dates.

Jane Mildred Hamsher, 3/8/51, San Diego-Spade there at the El Cortez Sky Room. April '53, Kathy Janeway, the Cowboy Rhythm Band at Bido Lito's--South L.A. Sharon, Sally, Chrissie Virginia, Maria up to Lynette: Bakersfield, Needles, Arizona, Frisco, Seattle, back to L.A., shifting personnel listed on pay cards: Deuce Perkins playing bass most of the time, drum and sax guys coming and going, Spade Cooley always headlining, in those cities on those DODs.

Blue sheets dripping wet--his own sweat. "Where's the band staying?"

Penzler: "The Biltmore, and you didn't get it from Natsky."

"That's good, 'cause this is Murder One and I wasn't here."

"I am like the Sphinx, I swear to you. My God, Spade and his lowlife crew. My God, do you know what he grossed last year?"

o o o

He called the lead in to Ellis Loew; Loew hit the roof: "I told you to stay out! I've got three _civilized_ men on it, and I'll tell them what you've got, but you stay out and get back to the Nite Owl, _do you understand me?_"

He understood: Kathy Janeway kept saying GO.

The Biltmore.

He forced himself to drive there slow, park by the back entrance, politely ask the clerk where to find Mr. Cooley's party. The clerk said, "The El Presidente Suite, floor nine"; he said "Thank you" so calm that everything went into slow motion and he thought for a second he was swimming.

The stairs were like swimming upstream--Little Kathy kept saying KILL HIM. The suite: double doors, gold-filigreed-- eagles, American flags. He jiggled the knob, the doors opened.

High swank gone white trash--three crackers passed out on the floor. Booze empties, dumped ashtrays, no Spade.

Connecting doors--the one on the right featured noise. Bud kicked it in.

Deuce Perkins in bed watching cartoons. Bud pulled his gun. "Where's Cooley?"

Perkins popped in a toothpick. "On a drunk, which is where I'm goin'. You want to see him, come to the El Rancho tonight. Chances are he'll show up."

"The fuck, he's the headliner."

"Most times. But Spade's been erratic lately, so I been film' in. I sing good as him and I'm better lookin', so nobody seems to mind. Now, you want to get out of here and leave me alone with my entertainment?"

"Where's he drinking?"

"Put that gun away, junior. The worse you got him for's nonpayment of child support, and Spade always pays sooner or later."

"Nix, this is Murder One, and I heard he likes opium."

Perkins coughed out his toothpick. "What'd you say?"

"Hookers. Spade like young girls?"

"He don't like to kill them, just play hide the tubesteak like you and me."

"_Where is he?_"

"Man, I'm not no snitch."

Backhanded pistolwhips--Perkins yelped, spat teeth. The TV went loud: kids squealing for Kellogg's Cornflakes. Bud shot the screen out.

Deuce snitched: "Check the '0' joints in Chinatown and please fuckin' leave me alone!"

Kathy said KILL HIM. Bud thought of his mother for the first time in years.

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

The doctor said, "I told this to your Captain Exley, and I told him an interview with Mr. Goldman would most likely prove fruitless--the man is simply not lucid most of the time. However, since he insisted on sending you up here, I'll run through it again."

Jack looked around. Camarillo was creepy: lots of geeks, geek artwork on the walls. "Would you? The captain wants a statement from him."

"Well, he'll be lucky to get one. Last July, Mr. Goldman and his confrere Mickey Cohen were attacked with knives and pipes at McNeil Island Prison. Unidentified assailants apparently, and Cohen was relatively unharmed while Mr. Goldman suffered serious brain damage. Both men were paroled late last year, and Mr. Goldman began to behave quite erratically. Late in December he was arrested for urinating in public in Beverly Hills, and the judge ordered him here for ninety days' observation. We've had him since Christmas and we've just recycled him in for another ninety. Frankly, we can't do a thing with him, and the only thing mysterious is that Mr. Cohen visited and offered to transfer Mr. Goldman to a private treatment facility at his own expense, but Mr. Goldman refused and acted terrified of him. Isn't that odd?"

"Maybe not. Where is he?"

"On the other side of that door. Be gentle with him, please. The man was a gangster, but he's just a sad human being now."

Jack opened the door. A small padded room; Davey Goldman on a long padded bench. He needed a shave; he reeked of Lysol. Slack-jawed Davey scoping a _National Geographic_.

Jack sat beside him--Goldman moved away. Jack said, "This place is the shits. You should've let Mickey spring you."

Goldman picked his nose, ate it.

"Davey, you on the outs with Mickey?"

Goldman held out his magazine--naked Negroes waving spears.

"Cute, and when they start showing white stuff I'll subscribe. Davey, you remember me? Jack Vincennes? I used to work LAPD Narco and we used to run into each other on the Strip."

Goldman scratched his balls. He smiled, low voltage, nobody home.

"Is this an act? Come on, Davey. You and the Mick go way back. You know he'd take care of you."

Goldman squashed an invisible bug. "Not anymore."

A gone man's voice--nobody could fake it that good. "Say, Davey, whatever happened to Dean Van Gelder? You remember him, he used to visit you at McNeil."

Goldman picked his nose, wiped it on his feet. Jack said, "Dean Van Gelder. He visited you at McNeil in '53, right around the time these two guys Pete and Bax Englekling visited Mickey. Now you're afraid of Mickey, and Van Gelder clipped a guy named Duke Cathcart and got clipped himself during the world famous Nite Owl fucking Massacre. You got any brains left to talk about that?"

No lights blinked on.

"Come on, Davey. You tell me, you won't feel so sad. Talk to your Uncle Jack."

"Dutchman! Dutch fuck! Mickey should know to hurt me but he don't. Hub rachmones, Meyer, hub rachmones, Meyer Harris Cohen te absolvo my sins."

His mouth did the talking--the rest of the man came off dead. Jack parlayed: Van Gelder the Dutchman, Yiddish to Latin, something like betrayal. "Come on, keep going. Confess to Father Jack and I'll make it allll better."

Goldman picked his nose; Jack shoved him. "Come on!"

"Dutchman blew it!"

?????--maybe--a jail bid on Duke Cathcart. "Blew what, come on!"

Goldman, a gone monotone. "Franchise boys got theirs three triggers blip blip blip. Fucking slowdown ain't no hoedown, Mickey thinks he'll get the fish but the Irish Cheshire got the fishy and Mickey gets the bones no gravy he is dead meat for the meow monster. Hub rachmones Meyer, I could trust you, not them, it's all on ice but not for us te absolvo . .

?????????? "Who are these guys you're talking about?"

Goldman hummed a tune, off key, familiar. Jack caught the melody: "Take the 'A' Train." "Davey, _talk_ to me."

Davey sang. "Bumpa--bump bump bump bump bump bump bump bump the cute train bump bump bump bump the cute train."

???????????????????--worse, like his brain had padded walls. "Davey, just talk."

Geek talk: "Bzz, bzz bzz talking bug to hear. Betty, Benny bug to listen, Barney bug. Hub rachmones Meyer my dear friend."

????????? into just maybe something:

The Engleklings saw Cohen _in his cell_, pitched him on Duke Cathcart's smut scheme. Mickey swore he did not tell a soul. Goldman found out about it, decided to crash the racket, dispatched Dean Van Gelder to snuff Cathcart--or maybe buy in on the deal. ????????--How--??????--DID HE HAVE A BUG PLANTED IN COHEN'S CELL?

"Davey, _tell me about the bug_."

Goldman started humming "In the Mood."

The doctor opened the door. "That's it, Officer. You've bothered this man long enough."

o o o

Exley okayed it on the phone: a run to McNeil to check for evidence of bugging apparatus in Mickey Cohen's former cell. The Ventura County Airport was a few miles away--he was to fly to Puget Sound, take a cab to the pen. Bob Gallaudet would have a Prison's Bureau man there to run liaison--the McNeil administrators pampered Cohen, probably took bribes for the service, might not cooperate without a push. Exley called the bug theory a long shot; he ranted that Bud White was missing--Fisk and Kleckner were out looking for him, the bastard was probably running from his _Whisper_ piece and the body in San Berdoo-- Fisk left him a note, mentioned the discovery. Parker said Dudley Smith was studying the Englekling case file and would report on it soon; Lynn Bracken was still holding back. Jack said, "What do we do about that?" Exley said, "The Dining Car at midnight. We'll discuss it."

Scary Captain Ed closing ominous.

Jack drove to Ventura, caught his ffight--Exley called ahead, vouchered his ticket. A stewardess handed out newspapers; he grabbed a _Times_ and _Daily News_ and read Nite Owl.

Dudley's boys were ripping up Darktown, hauling in known Negro offenders, looking for the _real_ punks popping shotguns in Griffith Park. Pure bullshit: whoever planted the weapons in Ray Coates' car planted the matching shells in the park, feeding off location leads in the press-only pros would have the brains and the balls to do it. Mike Breuning and Dick Carlisle were running a command post at 77th Street Station--the entire squad and twenty extra men from Homicide detached to work the case. No way were crazed darkies guilty--it was starting to look like 1953 all over again. The _Daily News_ showed photos: Central Avenue swarmed by placard-waving boogies, the house Exley bought Inez Soto. A dandy shot in the _Times_--Inez outside Ray Dieterling's place in Laguna, shielding her eyes from flashbulbs.

Jack kept reading.

The State Attorney General's Office issued a statement: Ellis Loew outfoxed them by planting a restraining order, but they were still interested in the case and would intercede when the order lapsed--unless the LAPD solved the Nite Owl mess to the satisfaction of the Los Angeles County Grand Jury within a suitable period of time. LAPD issued a press release--a detailpacked doozie on Inez Soto's 1953 gang rape accompanied by a heartwarming rendition of how Captain Ed Exley helped her rebuild her life. Exley's old man got a treatment: the Daily News played up the completion of the Southern California freeway system and reported a late-breaking rumor--Big Preston was soon to announce his candidacy in the governor's race, a scant two and a half months before the Republican primary, the eleventh-hour announcement strategy a ploy to capitalize on upcoming freeway brouhaha. How would his son's bad press affect his chances?

Jack measured his own chances. He was back on with Karen because she saw he was trying; the best way to keep it going was to cash in his twenty, grab his pension, get out of L.A. The next two months would be a sprint dodging bullets: the reopening, what Patchett and Bracken had on him. Odds you couldn't figure--for a sprinter he was scared and tired--and starting to feel old. Exley had sprint moves in mind--late dinner meets weren't his style. Bracken and Patchett might deal his dirt in; Parker might quash it to protect the Department. But Karen would know, and what was left of the marriage would go down--because she could just barely take that she'd married a drunk and a bagman. "Murderer" was one bullet they both couldn't dodge.

Three hours in the air; three hours pent up thinking. The plane touched down at Puget Sound; Jack caught a cab to McNeil.

Ugly: a gray monolith on a gray rock island. Gray walls, gray fog, barbed wire at the edge of gray water. Jack got out at the guard hut; the gatekeeper checked his ID, nodded. Steel gates slid back into stone.

Jack walked in. A wiry little man met him in the sallyport. "Sergeant Vincennes? I'm Agent Goddard, Prison's Bureau."

A good handshake. "Did Exley tell you what it's about?"

"Bob Gallaudet did. You're on the Nite Owl and related conspiracy cases and you think Cohen's cell might have been bugged. We're looking for evidence to support that theory, which I don't think is so farfetched."

"Why?"

They walked bucking wind-Goddard talked above it. "Cohen got the royal treatment here, Goldman too. Privileges up the wazoo, unlimited visitors and not too much scrutiny on the stuff brought into their tier, so a bug could have been planted. Are you thinking Goldman crossed Mickey?"

"Something like that."

"Well, could be. They had cells two doors apart, on a tier Mickey requested, because half the cells had ruined plumbing and you couldn't house inmates in them. You'll see, I've got the whole row vacated and closed off."

Checkpoints, the blocks--six-story tiers linked by catwalks. Upstairs to a corridor--eight empty cells. Goddard said, "The penthouse. Quiet, underpopulated and a nice day room for the boys to play cards in. We have an informant who says Cohen got approval on the inmates placed up here. Can you feature the cheek of that?"

Jack said, "Jesus, you're good. And fast."

"Well, Exley and Gallaudet carry weight, and the powers that be here didn't have time to prepare. Now check the goodies I brought."

On the day room table: crowbars, chisels, mallets, a long thin pole with a hook at the end. On a blanket: a tape recorder, a tangle of wires. Goddard said, "First we tear this tier up. I admit it's a long shot, but I brought a recorder along in case we find tape."

"I'd call that a maybe. Goldman and Cohen got paroled last fall, but they got bushwacked in July and Davey got his brains scrambled. I'm thinking if he was the one monitoring the tape then maybe he was too wet-brained to pull the machine."

"Enough gabbing. Let's dig."

o o o

They dug.

Goddard plumbed a line from the heat duct in Cohen's cell to the heat duct in Goldman's, marked a line on the ceilings of the two cells in between, started probing with a mallet and chisel. Jack pried a protection plate off the duct on Mickey's wall, banged around inside the chute with the hook device. Nothing but hollow tin walls, no wires just inside. Frustrating: it was the logical place to plant a microphone. Heat boomed out the duct; Jack changed his mind, Washington was cold, the heat would be on too much of the time, drowning out conversation. He checked the walls and ceiling for other conduits--nothing--then the area around the vent. Irregularly applied spackling dotted with pinholes right by the protector plate; he smashed his mallet until half the wall came down and a small Spackle-covered microphone dangling off a wire came loose. The wire jerked from his hand, straight back into the wall. Five seconds later Goddard stood there holding it--attached to a tape recorder covered with plastic. "Halfway between the cells, a little hidey-hole right off the vent. Let's listen, huh?"

o o o

They fired it up in the day room. Goddard hooked up his machine, changed spools, pushed buttons--tape-recorded tape.

Static, a dog yipping, "There, there, bubeleh"--Mickey Cohen's voice. Goddard said, "They let him keep a dog in his cell. Only in America, huh?"

Cohen: "Quit licking your schnitzel, little precious." More yips, a long silence, a click-off sound. Goddard said, "I was timing it. Voice-activated mike. Five minutes and it goes off automatically."

Jack brushed plaster off his hands. "How'd Goldman get in to change the tape?"

"He must have had some kind of hook thing, like that pole I gave you. The grate on his heat vent was loose, so we know somebody was poking around in there. Jesus, this thing has been in there how long? And Goldman had to have help, this is no one-man operation. Listen, here that click?"

Another click, a strange voice: "For how much? I'll have that guard place the bet." Cohen: "A thousand on Basilio, that little guinea is mean. And take a run by the infirmary and see Davey, my God a goddamn turnip those goons turned him into, I swear I will live to see them in a vegetable puree." Overlapping voices, mumbles, Mickey cooing, his dog yipping.

Nail the time: Goldman and Cohen had been attacked; Mickey laid down an early bet on the Robinson-Basilio fight last September, he was probably out by then--he got down before the odds dropped.

Click off, click on, forty-six minutes of Mickey and at least two other men playing cards, mumbling, flushing the toilet. The used tape almost gone; click off, click on, the fucking dog yowling.

Mickey: "Six years and ten months here and to lose Davey's redoubtable brain right before I leave. Such tsurus to go home on. Mickey Junior, quit licking your putt, you faigeleh."

A strange voice: "Get him a bitch, and he won't have to."

Cohen: "My God to be so nimble and so hung, like Heifetz on the fiddle with his shlong that dog is, and hung like Johnny Stompanato to boot. And on the topic of boots, I read Hedda Hopper's column and see Johnny's putting the boots to Lana Turner, such a crush he's had for so long, she must have a cunt like chinchilla."

The strange-voice man cracked up. Cohen: "Enough already, you brownnoser, save some for Jack Benny. Johnny I need now, Johnny I can't locate 'cause he's playing bury the brisket with movie stars. My franchise guys keep getting clipped and I need Johnny to put an ear down for who, but that big dick dago cunt-bandit is nowhere! I want those cocksuckers clipped! I want those shitbirds who hurt Davey to cease residence on this earth!"

Mickey cough, cough, coughed. Strange Voice: "How about Lee Vachss and Abe Teitlebaum? You could put them on it."

Cohen: "Such a shmendrik you are for a confidant, but you do play cribbage good. No, Abe has grown too soft to work muscle, too much grease noshed at his deli, such grease clogs the arteries that inspire mayhem, and Lee Vachss loves death too much to be discerning. Lana, what a snatch she must have, like cashmere."

The tape ran out. Goddard said, "Mickey sure does have a verbal style, but what did all that have to do with the Nite Owl case?"

"How's 'nothing' sound?"

CHAPTER SIXTY

One wall of his den was now a graph: Nite Owl related case players connected by horizontal lines, vertical lines linking them to a large sheet of cardboard blocked off into information sections--events culled from Vincennes' deposition. Ed wrote margin notes; his father's call still hammered him: "Edmund, I'm running for governor. Your recent notoriety may have hurt me, but put that aside. I don't want the Atherton case resurrected in print and tied to your various cases, and I don't want Ray Dieterling bothered. I want you to direct all your queries along those lines to me, and between the two of us we'll work things out."

He agreed. It rankled. It made him feel like a child--like sleeping with Lynn Bracken made him feel whorish. And too many Dieterling names were popping up on the graph.

Ed crossed lines.

Sid Hudgens lined to the ink smut Vincennes found in '53; the smut lined to Pierce Patchett. Line to: Christine Bergeron, her son Daryl and Bobby Inge, smut posers who disappeared almost concurrent with the Nite Owl. Have Fisk and Kleckner initiate a new search for them; attempt to identify the other posers--one more time. Put the smut/Hudgens line to the Atherton case aside, former Inspector Preston Exley would make discreet inquiries when asked.

A theoretical line--Pierce Patchett to Duke Cathcart. Lynn Bracken denied it, a lie, Vincennes' deposition had Patchett pushing the smut Cathcart planned to distribute--_but who made it?_ Hudgens to Patchett and Bracken: the dirtmonger was terrified that Vincennes was nosing around Fleur-de-Lis; Lynn told Jack that Patchett and Hudgens were going in on a gig together, she now denied it, another lie. He needed another graph just to chart lies--he didn't have a room big enough to hold it.

More lines:

Davey Goldman to Dean Van Gelder to Duke Cathcart and Susan Nancy Lefferts--incomprehensible until Vincennes reported back from McNeil Island, and Bud White, obviously hiding out, was questioned on what he might be suppressing. Vocational lines--Patchett, the Englekling brothers and their father possessed chemistry backgrounds; Patchett, a reputed heroin sniffer, had plastic surgery connections to Dr. Terry Lux, the owner of a booze/dope sanitarium. Dudley Smith's report to Parker stated that Pete and Bax Englekling were tortured to death with corrosive chemicals, no other details added. Conclusion: the link to decipher every interconnected line had to be Patchett--his whores, his smut posers, Patchett the conduit to the man who made the blood smut, killed Hudgens and formed the final line stretching back to 1934 and his own father's glory case.

Too many lines to ignore.

Patchett bankrolled early Dieterling films. Dieterling's son Billy and boyfriend Timmy Valburn used Fleur-de-Lis; Valburn was a Bobby Inge K.A. Billy worked on Badge of Honor, the first focus of the Hudgens homicide investigation. Badge of Honor co-star Miller Stanton was a Dieterling kid star around the same time that Wee Willie Wennerholm was murdered--by Loren Atherton? Slash lines--Atherton to the smut to Hudgens; lines of coincidence too convenient not to cut at family loyalty-- seventeen years post-Atherton, Preston Exley builds Dreama-Dreamland.

Governor Exley. Chief of Detectives Exley.

Ed thought of Lynn, tasted her, shuddered. A quick jump to Inez--a new line to utilize.

He drove to Laguna Beach.

o o o

The press, swarming: perched by their cars, playing cards on Ray Dieterling's lawn. Ed pulled around the block, walked up, sprinted.

They saw him, chased him. He made the door, slammed the knocker. The door opened--straight into Inez.

She slammed it, bolted it. Ed walked into the living room-- Dream-a-Dreamland smiled all around him.

Gimcracks, porcelain statues: Moochie, Danny, Scooter. Wall photos: Dieterling and crippled children. Canceled checks encased in plastic--six figures to fight kids' diseases.

"See, I've got company."

Ed turned to face her. "Thanks for letting me in."

"They've been treating you worse than me, so I figured I owed you."

She looked pale. "Thanks. And you know it'll pass, just like last time."

"Maybe. You look lousy, Exley."

"People keep telling me that."

"Then maybe it's true. Look, if you want to stay and talk awhile, fine, but please don't talk about Bud or all this _mierda_ that's going on."

"I wasn't planning on it, but small talk was never our forte."

She walked up. Ed embraced her; she grabbed his arms and pushed herself away. Ed tried a smile. "I saw some gray hairs. When you're my age you'll probably be as gray as I am. How's that for small talk?"

"Small, and I can do better. Preston's running for governor, unless his notorious son ruins his chances. I'm going to be his campaign coordinator."

"Governor Dad. Did he say I'd ruin his chances?"

"No, because he'd never say bad things about you. Just try to do what you can not to hurt him."

Reporters outside--Ed heard them laughing. "I don't want Father to be hurt either. And you can help me prevent it."

"How?"

"A favor. A favor between you and me, nobody else to know."

"What? Explain it."

"It's very complicated, and it involves Ray Dieterling. Do you know the name 'Pierce Patchett'?"

Inez shook her head. "No, who is he?"

"He's an investor of sorts, that's all I can tell you. I need you to use your access at Dream-a-Dreamland to check his financial connections to Dieterling. Check back to the late '20s, very quietly. Will you do that for me?"

"Exley, this sounds like police business. And what does it have to do with your father?"

Recoiling: doubting the man who formed him. "Father might be in some tax trouble. I need you to check Dieterling's financial records for mention of him."

"Bad trouble?"

"Yes."

"Check back to '50 or so? When they began planning for Dream-a-Dreamland?"

"No, go back to 1932. I know you've seen the books at Dieterling Productions, and I know you can do it."

"With explanations to follow?"

More recoil. "On Election Day. Come on, Inez. You love him almost as much as I do."

"All right. For your father."

"No other reason?"

"All right, for what you've done for me and the friends you gave me. And if that sounds cruel, I'm sorry."

A Moochie Mouse clock struck ten. Ed said, "I should go, I've got a meeting in L.A."

"Go out the back way. I think I still hear the vultures."

o o o

The recoil got squared driving back.

Call it standard elimination procedure:

If his father really did know Ray Dieterling during the time of the Atherton case, he had a valid reason for not revealing it, he was probably embarrassed at plumbing business deals with a man he once rubbed shoulders with in the process of a hellish murder investigation. Preston Exley believed that policemen striking friendships with influential civilians was inimical to the concept of impartial absolute justice, and if he fell short of his own standards it was understandable that he would not want the fact known.

Squared with love and respect.

Ed made the Dining Car early; the maître d' said his guest was waiting. He walked back to his favorite booth--a private nook behind the bar. Vincennes was there, holding a tape spool.

Ed sat down. "That's tape off a bug?"

Vincennes slid the spool over. "Yeah, filled with Mickey C. running off at the mouth on stuff that has nothing to do with the Nite Owl. Too bad, but I think we can put Davey down as a traitor to Mickey, and I think he must have heard the Engleklings offer Mick the Cathcart deal. He liked the sound of it and sent Van Gelder after Duke. And that's as far as I can take it."

The man looked shot. "Good work, Jack. Really, I mean it."

"Thanks, and that first name bit just went over large."

Ed picked up a menu, emptied his pockets underneath it. "It's midnight and I'm all out of subtlety."

"You're working up to something. What'd you get out of Bracken?"

"Nothing but lies. And you're right, Sergeant. The McNeil end is dead for now."

"So?"

"So tomorrow I'm hitting Patchett. I'm sealing l.A. off from Dudley and his men and bringing in Terry Lux, Chester Yorkin and every Patchett flunky that Fisk and Kleckner can find."

"Yeah, but what about Bracken and Patchett?"

Ed saw Lynn naked. "Bracken tried to buy out of your deposition. She snitched you on that escapade in Malibu, and I played her back on it."

Trash slammed his head down on two clenched fists. Ed said, "I told her you'd do anything to get the file back. I told her you still love dope and you're in hock to some bookies. You're up for a trial board and you want to crash Patchett's rackets."

Vincennes raised his head--pale, knuckle-gouged. "So tell me you'll square what's in the file."

Ed picked up his menu. Underneath: heroin, Benzedrine, a switchblade, a 9mm automatic. "You're going to shake Patchett down. He snorts heroin, so you offer him some. If you want some stuff to get your own juice up, you've got it. You're going after him to get your file back and to find out who made the blood smut and killed Hudgens. I'm working on a script, and you'll have it by tomorrow night. You're going to scare the shit out of Patchett and you're going to do whatever it takes to get what we both want. I know you can do it, so don't make me threaten you."

Vincennes smiled. He almost hit the chord--the old big-time Big V. "Suppose it goes bad?"

"Then kill him."

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

Opium fumes banged his head; chink backtalk banged it worse: "Spade not here, my place have police sanction, I pay I pay!" Uncle Ace Kwan sent him to Fat Dewey Shin, who sent him to a string of dens on Alameda--Spade was there, but Spade was gone, "I pay! I pay!," try Uncle Minh, Uncle Chin, Uncle Chan. The Chinatown runaround, it took him hours to figure it out, a shuffle from enemy to enemy. Uncle Danny Tao pulled a shotgun; he took it away from him, blackjacked him, still couldn't force a snitch. Spade was there, Spade was gone--and if he took one more whiff of "0" he knew he'd curl up and die or start shooting. The punch line: he was shaking Chinatown for a man named Cooley.

Chinatown dead for now.

Bud called the D.A.'s Bureau, gave the squad whip his Perkins/Cooley leads; the man yawned along, signed off bored. Out to the Strip; the Cowboy Rhythm Band on stage, no Spade, nobody had seen him in a couple of days. Hillbilly clubs, local bars, night spots--no sightings of Donnell Clyde Cooley. 1:00 fucking A.M., no place to go but Lynn's--"Where _were_ you?" and a bed.

Rain came on--a downpour. Bud counted taillights to stay awake: red dots, hypnotizing. He made Nottingham Drive near gone--dizzy, numb in the limbs.

Lynn on her porch, watching the rain. Bud ran up; she held her arms out. He slipped, steadied himself with her body.

She stepped back. Bud said, "I was worried. I kept calling you last night before things got crazy."

"Crazy how?"

"The morning, it's too long a story for now. How did it--" Lynn touched his lips. "I told them things about Pierce that you already know, and I've been getting misty with the rain and thinking about telling them more."

"More what?"

"I'm thinking that it's over with Pierce. In the morning, sweetie. Both our stories for breakfast."

Bud leaned on the porch rail. Lightning lit up the street--and dry tears on Lynn's face. "Honey, what is it? Is it Exley? Did he hardnose you?"

"It's Exley, but not what you're thinking. And I know why you hate him so much."

"What do you mean?"

"That he's just the opposite of all the good things you are. He's more like I am."

"I don't get it."

"Well, it's a credibility he has for being so calculating. I started out hating him because you do, then he made me realize some things about Pierce just by being who he is. He told me some things he didn't have to, and my own reactions surprised me."

More lightning--Lynn looked god-awful sad. Bud said, "For instance?"

"For instance Jack Vincennes is going crazy and has some kind of vendetta against Pierce. And I don't care half as much as I should."

"How did you get so friendly with Exley?"

Lynn laughed. "_In vino veritas_. You know, sweetie, you're thirty-nine years old and I keep waiting for you to get exhausted being who you are."

"I'm exhausted tonight."

"That's not what I meant."

Bud turned on the porch light. "You gonna tell me what happened with you and Exley?"

"We just talked."

Her makeup was tear streaked--it was the first time he'd seen her not beautiful. "So tell me about it."

"In the morning."

"No, now."

"Honey, I'm as tired as you are."

Her little half smile did it. "You slept with him."

Lynn looked away. Bud hit her--once, twice, three times. Lynn faced straight into the blows. Bud stopped when he saw he couldn't break her.

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

IAD--packed.

Chester Yorkin, the Fleur-de-Lis delivery man, stashed in booth --1; in 2 and 3: Paula Brown and Lorraine Malvasi, Patchett whores--Ava Gardner, Rita Hayworth. Lamar Hinton, Bobby Inge, Christine Bergeron and son could not be located; ditto the smut posers--Fisk and Kleckner failed to make them from extensive mugbook prowls. In booth 4: Sharon Kostenza, real name Mary Alice Mertz, a plum off Vincennes' deposition-- the woman who once bailed Bobby Inge out of jail and paid a surety bond for Chris Bergeron. In booth 5: Dr. Terry Lux, his attorney--the great Jerry Geisler.

Ray Pinker standing by with counterdope--so far none of the new fish looked drugged.

Two officers guarding the squadroom--private interrogations--strict l.A. autonomy.

Kleckner and Fisk grilling Mertz and pseudo Ava--armed with deposition copies, smut photos, a case summary. Yorkin, Lux and phony Rita cooling their heels.

Ed worked in his office: draft three of Vincennes' script. A thought nagged him: if Lynn Bracken reported to Patchett in full, he would have yanked his people before the police could bring them in--the way Inge, Bergeron and son disappeared immediately pre--Nite Owl. Two possibles on that--she was playing an angle or their rutting had her confused and she was stalling to figure the upshot. Most likely the former--the woman cut her last confused breath at birth.

He could still taste her.

Ed drew lines on paper. Inez to check Dieterling connections to Patchett and his father--that thought still made him wince. Two l.A. men out looking for White--apprehend the bastard and break him. Billy Dieterling and Timmy Valburn to be questioned--kid gloves, they had prestige, juice. A line to the Hudgens kill and the Hudgens/Patchett "gig"--Vincennes' deposition stated that Hudgens' _Badge of Honor_ files were missing at the time of his death, anomalous, the show was a Hudgens fixation. The _Badge of Honor_ people were alibied for the murder--but another reading of the case file was in order.

Half his maze of cases read extortion.

Line to an outside issue--Dudley Smith, going crazy for a quick Darktown collar. Line to a rumor: Thad Green was going to take over the U.S. Border Patrol come May. A theoretical line: Parker would choose his new chief of detectives solely on the basis of the Nite Owl case--him or Smith. Dudley might send White back to break his autonomy; criss cross all lines to keep his case sealed.

Kleckner walked in. "Sir, the Mertz woman won't cooperate. All she'll say is that she lives under that Sharon Kostenza alias and that she makes bail for Patchett's people when they get arrested for outside charges. Nobody's ever been arrested working for him, we know that. She says she can't ID the people in the photos and she's mum on that extortion angle you told me to play up. She deadpanned the Nite Owl--and I believe her."

"Release her, I want her to go to Patchett and panic him. What did Duane get off Ava Gardner?"

Kleckner passed him a sheet of paper. "Lots. Here's the high points, and he's got the actual interview on tape."

"Good. You go soften up Yorkin for me. Bring him a beer and baby sit him."

Kleckner walked out smiling. Ed read Fisk's memo.

Witness Paula Brown 3/25/58

1. Witness revealed names of numerous P.P. call girl/male prostitute customers (specifics to follow in separate memo & on tape)

2. Could not ID people in photos (seems truthful on this)

3. Extortion hook got her talking

a. P.P. gave his girls/male prostitutes bonuses to get their customers to reveal intimate details of their lives

b. P.P. makes his prosts quit at 30 (apparent bee in his bonnet)

c. On in-home prostitution assignments, P.P. had prosts leave doors/windows open so men with cameras could take compromising photos. Prosts also made wax impressions of locks on certain rich casts doors

d. P.P. had famous (T. Lux obviously) plastic surgeon cut male/female prosts to look like movie stars and thus make more $

e. Male prosts extorted $ from married homosexual custs & split take with P.P.

f. Bored by Nite Owl quests (obviously has no guilty knowledge)

Astounding audacious perversion.

Ed hit sweatbox row, checked the mirrors. Fisk and phony Ava talking; Kleckner and Yorkin drinking beer. Terry Lux reading a magazine, Jerry Geisler fuming. Lorraine Malvasi alone in a cloud of smoke. Astounding audacious perversion--the woman had Rita Hayworth's face down to the bone, up to the hairdo from _Gilda_.

He opened the door. Rita/Lorraine stood up, sat down, lit a cigarette. Ed handed her Fisk's memo. "Please read this, Miss Malvasi."

She read, chewing lipstick. "So?"

"So do you confirm that or not?"

"So I'm entitled to a lawyer."

"Not for seventy-two hours."

"You can't hold me here that long."

"Caaant"--a bad New York accent. "Not here, but we can hold you at the Woman's Jail."

Lorraine bit at a nail, drew blood. "You caan't."

"Sure I can. Sharon Kostenza's in custody, so she can't make bail for you. Pierce Patchett is under surveillance and your friend Ava just spilled what you read there. She talked first, and all I want you to do is fill in some blanks."

A little sob. "I caan't."

"Why not?"

"Pierce has been too nice to--"

Cut her off. "Pierce is finished. Lynn Bracken turned state's on him. She's in protective custody, and I can go to her for the answers or save myseW the trouble and ask you."

"I caaan't."

"You can and you will."

"No, I caaan't."

"You'd better, because you're an accessory to eleven felonies in Paula Brown's statement alone. Are you afraid of the dykes at the jail?"

No answer.

"You should be, but the matrons are worse. Big husky bull daggers with nightsticks. You know what they do with those--"

"All right all right all right! All right I'll tell you!"

Ed took out a notepad, wrote "Chrono." Lorraine: "It's not Pierce's fault. This guy made him do it."

"What guy?"

"I don't know. Really, for real, I don't know."

"Chrono" underlined. "When did you start working for Patchett?"

"When I was twenty-one."

"Give me the year."

"1951."

"And he had Terry Lux perform surgery on you?"

"Yes! To make me more beautiful!"

"Easy now, please. Now a second ago you said that a guy--"

"I don't know who the guy is! I caan't tell you what I don't know!"

"Sssh, please. Now, you confirmed Paula Brown's statement and you said that a 'guy,' _whose identity you don't know_, coerced Patchett into the extortion plans detailed in that statement. Is that correct?"

Lorraine put out her cigarette, lit another one. "Yes. Extortion is like blackmail, right, so yes."

"When, Lorraine? Do you know _when_ 'this guy' approached Patchett?"

She counted on her fingers. "Five years ago, May."

"Chrono" hard underlined. "That's May of 1953?"

"Yeah, 'cause my father died that month. Pierce called us kids in and said we had to do it, he didn't want to, but this guy had him by the you-know-whats. He didn't say the guy's name and I don't think none of the other kids know it either."

"Chrono" one month post--Nite Owl. "Think fast, Lorraine. The Nite Owl massacre. Remember that?"

"What? Some people got shot, right?"

"Never mind. What else did Patchett tell you when he called you in?"

"Nothing."

"_Nothing_ else on Patchett and extortion? Remember, I'm not asking you if you did any of this. I'm not asking you to incriminate yourself."

"Well, maybe three months or so before that I heard Veronica--I mean Lynn--and Pierce talking. He said him and that scandal mag man who got killed later were gonna run this squeeze thing where Pierce would tell him about our clients' secret little . . - you know, fetishes, and the man would threaten the clients with being in _Hush-Hush_. You know, pay money or be in the scandal mag."

_Extortion theory validated_. An instinct: on some level Lynn was playing straight, she hadn't told Patchett to prepare--he never would have let these people come in. "Lorraine, did Sergeant Kieckner show you some pornographic pictures?"

A nod. "I told him and I'll tell you. I don't know any of the people and those pictures gave me the creeps."

Ed walked out. Duane Fisk in the hallway. "Good work, sir. When you got her on that 'this guy' bit, I went back and ran it by Ava. She confirmed it and confirmed that no ID."

Ed nodded. "Tell her that Rita and Yorkin have been booked, then release her. I want her to go back to Patchett. How's Kieckner doing with Yorkin?"

Fisk shook his head. "That boy's a hardcase. He's practically daring Don to make him talk. Hey, where's Bud White now that we need him?"

"Amusing, but don't keep it up. And right now I want you to take Lux and Geisler to lunch. Lux is here voluntarily, so be nice. Tell Geisler that this is a multiple homicide major conspiracy case, and tell him Lux gets full collateral immunity for his cooperation and a signed promise of no courtroom testimony. Tell him it's already in writing, and if he wants verification to call Ellis Loew."

Fisk nodded, walked down to booth 5. Ed checked the #1 look-in.

Chester Yorkin wising off at the mirror: making faces, flipping the bird. Skinny, a pompadour flopped over his eyes oozing grease. Welts on his arms--maybe old needle marks.

Ed opened the door. Yorkin said, "Hey, I know you. I read about you."

Tracks confirmed--scar tissue on the welts. "I've been in the news."

Giggle, giggle. "This is an old one, _kemo sabe_. Something like you saying, 'I never hit suspects 'cause that's the cop lowered to the level of the criminal.' You wanta hear my answer? I never snitch, 'cause cops are all cocksuckers who get their cookies off making guys talk."

"You through?"--Bud White's stock line.

"No. Your father takes it up the ass from Moochie Mouse."

Scared, but he did it--an elbow to the windpipe. Yorkin gasped; Ed got behind him, cuffed him, shoved him to the floor.

Scared, but steady hands: look, Dad, no fear.

Yorkin backed into a corner.

Scared, another Bad Bud move: a chair, a roundhouse swing, the chair smashed to the wall just above the suspect's head. Yorkin tried to squirm away; Ed kicked him back to his corner. Slow now: don't let your voice break, don't let your eyes go soft behind your glasses. "_Everything_. I want to know about the smut and the other shit you push through Fleur-de-Lis. _Everything_. You start with those tracks on your arms and why a smart man like Patchett trusts a junkie like you. And you know one thing right now--Patchett is finished and I'm the only one who can cut you a deal. _Do you understand me?_"

Yorkin bobbed his head yes yes yes. "Test pilot! I flew for him! Test pilot!"

Ed unlocked his cuffs. "Say that again."

Yorkin rubbed his neck. "Guinea pig."

"What?"

"I let him test horse on me. Here and there, a little at a time."

"Start over. Slowly."

Yorkin coughed. "Pierce got this heroin stolen off this Cohen-- Jack Dragna deal years ago. This guy Buzz Meeks left some with these guys Pete and Bar Englekling, just a sample, and they gave it to their father, who was some kind of chemistry hotshot. He taught Pierce in college, and he laid the shit off to him and died, a heart attack or something. This other guy, I don't know his name so don't ask me, he killed Meeks or something like that. He got the rest of the shit, like eighteen pounds' worth. Pierce has been developing compounds with the stuff for years. He wants to make the cheapest and the safest and the best. I just . . . I just take some test pops."

Astounding lines crossing. "You were making deliveries for Fleur-de-Lis five years ago, right?"

"Right, yeah, sure."

"You and Lamar Hinton."

"I ain't seen Lamar in years, you can't pin Lamar's shit on me!"

Ed grabbed the spare chair, brandished it. "I don't want to. Give me an answer on this, and if I like it I'll owe you a solid. It's a test and you're a test pilot, so you should do well. Who shot at Jack Vincennes outside the Hollywood drop back in '53?"

Yorkin cringed. "Me. Pierce told me to clip him. I shouldn't of done it by the drop. I fucked up and Pierce got pissed."

Patchett nailed: attempted murder on a police officer. "What did he do to you for that?"

"He tested me bad. He gave me all these bad compounds he said he had to eliminate. He made me take these bad fucking flights."

"So you hate him for it."

"Man, Pierce ain't like regular people. I hate him, but I dig him too."

Ed pushed the chair away. "Do you remember the Nite Owl shootings?"

"Sure, years ago. What's that got to do--"

"Never mind, and here's the important thing. If you fill this in for me, I'll give you a written immunity statement and put you up in protective custody until Patchett's down. Smut, Chester. You remember those orgy books Fleur-de-Lis was running five years ago?"

Yorkin bobbed his head yes.

"The ink blood on the pictures, do you remember that?"

Yorkin smiled--snitching eager now. "I know that story good. Pierce is going down for real?"

Ten hours from the script. "Maybe tonight."

"Then fuck him for all those bad flights."

"Chester, just tell me slowly."

Yorkin stood up, worked the kinks from his legs. "You know what's a bitch about Pierce? He'd say all these things around me when I was on a flight, like I was harmless 'cause I couldn't remember nothing he said."

Ed got out his notebook. "Try to tell it in order."

Yorkin rubbed his throat, coughed. "Okay, Pierce had this old string of girls that he let go, this was around when we were moving them picture books. Some guy, I don't know his name, he talked some of the girls and their johns into posing for them pictures. He made books out of them and went to Pierce to get money to move the books wide, you know, he promised Pierce a cut. Pierce, he liked the idea, but he didn't want to expose his girls or their johns. He bought a bunch of the books off the guy to move through Fleur-de-Lis, you know, just a close distribution he called it, like a test market, he figured he could keep track of the stuff that way."

Old lines crossing: the close distribution wasn't that close, Ad Vice retrieved throwaway copies--Vincennes to the case. "Keep going, Chester."

"Well, the guy who made the stuff, somehow he weaseled some info on the Englekling brothers out of Pierce, how they had this printing press place and was always bent for money. He found himself a front man, and the front man, he approached the brothers. You know, a plan to make the shit bulk and move it."

The front man: Duke Cathcart. Zigzag lines from Cohen to the brothers, the brothers to Patchett, back on a sideswipe: Mickey at McNeil Island--then Goldman and Van Gelder. _Line the heroin to the pornography_. "Chester, how do you know all this?"

Yorkin laughed. "I'd be on a mainline flight and Pierce, he'd be on safe old white horse up the nose. He'd just jaw at me like I some kind of dog you talk to."

"So Patchett and the smut are dead, right? All he's interested in is pushing the heroin."

"Nix. That guy who brought Pierce the eighteen pounds years ago? Well, he's got a hard-on for the smut. He's got lists of all these rich perverts and all these contacts in South America. Him and Pierce, they sat on the original pictures for years, then they had some new books made up who-knows-where. They got the shit in a warehouse someplace, I don't know where, just waiting to go. I think Pierce was waiting for some kind of heat to die down."

No new lines crossed. A phrase sunk in: _profit motive_. Pornography by itself was chancy; twenty pounds of heroin _developed_ meant millions. Yorkin said, "One more 'case you get antsy on my deal. Pierce has got him a booby-trapped safe by his house. He's got money, dope, all kinds of stuff stashed there."

Ed kept thinking MONEY.

Yorkin: "Hey, talk to me! You want the new drop address? 8819 Linden, Long Beach. Exley, talk to me!"

"Steak in your cell, Chester. You've earned it."

o o o

Fresh lines--Ed pulled Fisk's and Kleckner's summaries, added the Yorkin/Malvasi revelations.

Heroin and pornography lined. "The Guy" who made the smut books as Sid Hudgens' killer, his front man Duke Cathcart--killed by Dean Van Gelder, ordered killed or merely approached by Davey Goldman--who learned of the smut proposal via the bug in Mickey Cohen's cell. Cohen omnipresent--his stolen heroin ended up with both the Engleklings and "The Man" who brought Patchett the eighteen pounds of "H" for development, "The Man" who also loved pornography and convinced Patchett to manufacture new books from the 1953 prototypes. An instinct: Cohen was Mr. Patsy going back eight years, in and out of jail, a focal point who never dealt his own hand into the welter of cases. A line to a conclusion: the Nite Owl killings were semiprofessional at least, an attempt to take over the heroin and pornography rackets of Pierce Patchett. Cathcart, attempting to push the smut on his own, was the focus of the kiffings. Did he misrepresent his importance to the wrong people, or did the shooters deliberately take out Van Gelder, knowing or not knowing he was a Cathcart impersonator? Lines to organized crime intrigue, semipro at least, with all mob lines dead or incapacitated: Franz Englekling and sons--dead, Davey Goldman a vegetable, Mickey Cohen befuddled by the action going on around him. A question line: who clipped Pete and Bar Englekling? The terror line: Loren Atherton, 1934. How could it be?

Fisk rapped on the door. "Sir, I brought Lux and Geisler back."

"And?"

"Geisler gave me a prepared statement."

"Read it."

Fisk pulled Out a sheet. "'Pertaining to my relationship with Pierce Morehouse Patchett, I, Terence Lux, M.D., do offer the following notarized statement. To wit: my relationship with Pierce Patchett is professional: i.e., I have performed extensive plastic surgery on a number of male and female acquaintances of his, perfecting already existing resemblances to exact resemblances of several notable actors and actresses. Unsubstantiated rumors hold that Patchett employs these young people for purposes of prostitution, but I have no conclusive evidence that this is true. Duly sworn,' et cetera."

Ed said, "Not good enough. Duane, you take Yorkin and Rita Hayworth across the street and book them. Aiding and Abetting, and leave the arrest dates blank. Allow them one phone call each, then go down to Long Beach and seize 8819 Linden. That's a Fleur-de-Lis drop, and I'm sure Patchett's cleaned it out, but do it anyway. If you find the place virgin, bust it up and leave the door open."

Fisk swallowed. "Uh, sir? Bust it up? And no booking date on our suspects?"

"_Bust it up. Make a statement. And don't question my orders_."

Fisk said, "Uh, yes, sir." Ed closed the door, buzzed Kleckner. "Don, send Dr. Lux and Mr. Geisler in."

"Yes, sir," loud on the intercom. Whispered: "They're pissed, Captain. Thought you should know."

Ed opened the door. Geisler and Lux walked up--brusque.

No handshakes. Geisler said, "Franidy, that lunch didn't begin to cover the hourly rate I'm going to have to charge Dr. Lux. I think it's reprehensible that he came here voluntarily and was kept waiting so long."

Ed smiled. "I apologize. I accept the formal statement you offered and I have no real questions for Dr. Lux. I have just one favor to ask and a large one to grant in return. And send me your bill, Mr. Geisler. You know I can afford it."

"I know your father can. Continue, please. You're holding my interest so far."

Ed to Lux. "Doctor, I know who you know and you know who I know. And I know you deal in legal morphine cures. Help me with something and I'll pledge my friendship."

Lux cleaned his nails with a scalpel. "The _Daily News_ says you're obsolescent."

"They're mistaken. Pierce Patchett and heroin, Doctor. I'll settle for rumors and I won't ask for your sources."

Geisler and Lux went into a huddle--a step out the door, whispers. Lux broke it off. "I've heard Pierce is connected to some very bad men who want to control the heroin trade in Los Angeles. He's quite the chemist, you know, and he's been developing a special blend for years. Hormones, antipsychotic strains, quite a brew. I've heard it puts regular heroin to shame, and I heard it's ready to be manufactured and sold. One in my column, Captain. Jerry, take the man at his word and send him my bill."

o o o

Semipro, pro--his new lines all spelled HEROIN. Ed called Bob Gallaudet, left a message with his secretary: Nite Owl maybe breaking--call me. A picture on his desk hooked him: Inez and his father at Arrowhead. He called Lynn Bracken.

"Hello?"

"Lynn, it's Exley."

"God, hello."

"You didn't go to Patchett, did you?"

"Did you think I would? Were you setting me up to?"

Ed laid the picture face down. "I want you to get out of L.A. for a week or so. I have a place at Lake Arrowhead, you can stay there. Leave this afternoon."

"Is Pierce . . ."

"I'll tell you later."

"Will you come up?"

Ed checked the Vincennes script. "As soon as I set something up. Have you seen White?"

"He came and went, and I don't know where he is. Is he all right?"

"Yes. No, shit, I don't know. Meet me at Fernando's on the lake. It's right by my place. Say six?"

"I'll be there."

"I figured you'd take some convincing."

"I've already convinced myself of lots of things. Leaving town just makes it easier."

"_Why_, Lynn?"

"The party was over, I guess. Do you think keeping your mouth shut's a heroic act?"

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

Bud woke up at the Victory. Dusk out the window--he'd slept through half a night and a day. He rubbed his eyes; Spade Cooley locked right back on him. He smelled cigarette smoke, saw Dudley sitting by the door.

"Bad dreams, lad? You were thrashing a bit."

Nightmare: Inez trashed by the press, his fault--what he did to nail Exley.

"Lad, in repose you reminded me of my daughters. And you know I care for you no less."

He'd sweated the sheets through. "What's with the job? What's next?"

"Next you listen. I've long been involved in containing hard crime so that myself and a few colleagues might someday enjoy a profit dispensation, and that day will soon be arriving. As a colleague, you will share handsomely. Grand means will be in our hands, lad. Imagine the means to keep the nigger filth sedated and extrapolate from there. One obstreperous Italian you've dealt with in the past is involved, and I think you can be particularly useful in keeping him in line."

Bud stretched, cracked his knuckles. "I meant the reopening. Talk straight, okay?"

"Edmund Jennings Exley is as straight as I can be. He's trying to prove bad things against Lynn, lad. Salt on all the old wounds he's given you."

Live wires buzzing. "You knew about us. I should've known."

"There is precious little I don't know, and nothing I would not do for you. Coward Exley has touched the only two women you've loved, lad. Think of grand ways to hurt him."

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

They made love straight off-- Ed knew they'd have to talk if they didn't, Lynn seemed to sense the same thing. The cabin was musty, the bed unmade--stale from last time with Inez. Ed kept the lights on: the more he saw, the less he'd think. It helped him through the act; counting Lynn's freckles kept him from peaking. Slow on the act, both of them, making up for their tumble off the couch. Lynn had bruises; Ed knew they came from Bud White. For a tightrope act they were gentle; their long embrace after felt like payback for their lies. When they started talking they'd never stop. Ed wondered who'd say "Bud White" first.

Lynn said it. Bud was the fulcrum that convinced her to lie to Patchett: the police investigation was a joke, they were grasping at straws. White knew of Patchett's milder doings, she was afraid he'd get in trouble if Pierce fought back. Pierce might try to buy his friendship, he thought everyone had a price tag, he didn't know her Wendell couldn't be bought. Bud got her thinking; the more she thought the more she hurt; a certain police captain kissing a certain ex-whore at the only moment she would have let him just added to the party's over, Pierce made me but he's bad deep down, if I let him go then maybe I'll get back some of the good things he's killed in me. Ed winced through the words, knew he couldn't return her candor--now Jack Vincennes was going in barefoot, he'd counted on Lynn to push Patchett to panic, past Fisk taking a fire axe to the drop, past his people grilled and arrested. Lynn met his silence with words--excerpts from her diary, a show-and-tell for fugitive lovers her pronouncement. Funny, sad--old tricks derided, a monologue on carhop hookers that almost had him laughing. Lynn on Inez and Bud White--he loved her here and there and mostly at a distance because her rage was worse than his, drained him, a night here and there was all he could take. No jealousy--so his own jealousy jumped up, almost forced him to shout questions: heroin and extortion, astounding audacious perversion, just how much do you know? The gift she gave him wouldn't let him; soft hands on his chest made him throw out a parity in candor before he started interrogating or lying just to have something to say.

He went straight to his family, spiraled past to present. Mama's boy Eddie, golden boy Thomas, the jig he danced when his brother stopped six bullets. Being a policeman/patrician from a long line of Scotland Yard detectives. Inez, four men killed out of weakness; Dudley Smith going crazy to find a suitable scapegoat that Ellis Loew and Chief Parker just might accept as a panacea. A headlong rush to the great Preston Exley in all his intractable glory and how ink-embossed pornography lined to a dead scandalmonger, vivisected children and his father and Raymond Dieterling twenty-four years ago. A rush until there was nothing left to say and Lynn kissed his lips shut and he fell asleep touching her bruises.

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

Rogue cop Big V--give Exley credit for good casting. He synced his approach call to the drop raid--Patchett said, "Yes, I'll talk to you. Eleven tonight, and come alone."

He wore a tape wire hooked across a bulletproof vest.

He carried a bag of heroin, a switchblade, a 9mm automatic. Exley's Benzedrine down the toilet, grief he didn't need.

He walked up, rang the bell--stage fright all the way. Patchett opened the door. Pinned-back eyes like Exley predicted--a nose junkie.

Jack, per the script: "Hello, Pierce"--all contempt. Patchett shut the door. Jack threw the dope in his face. It hit him, fell to the floor.

Ad lib time. "Just a peace offering. Not up to that shit you tested on Yorkin anyway. Did you know my brother-in-law's the City D.A.? He's a bonus you get if you make a deal with me."

Patchett: "Where did you get that?" Calm, the stuff up his nose wouldn't let him show fear.

Jack pulled out the knife, scratched his neck with the blade. He felt blood, licked it off a finger--Academy Award psycho. "I shook down some niggers. You know all about that, right? _Hush-Hush_ Magazine used to write me up. You and Sid Hudgens go way back, so you should know."

No fear. "You made trouble for me five years ago. I still have that file carbon on you, and I think it's fair to say that you broke your part of our bargain. I'm assuming you've shown your superiors your deposition."

Knife bit: the tip of the blade in one palm, a little push to retract it. More blood, a key Exley line. "I'm way past you in the information department. I know about the heroin you got from the Cohen-Dragna deal and what you've been doing with it. I know about the smut you were pushing in '53, and I know all about those extortion shakedowns with your whores. And all I want is my file and some information. You give me that and I'll put the fritz to everything Captain Exley has."

"What information?"

The script, verbatim. "I made a deal with Hudgens. The deal was my file destroyed and ten grand in cash in exchange for some juicy dirt I had on the LAPD high brass. I knew Sid was going to work a shakedown scheme with you, and I'd already backed down on Fleur-de-Lis--you know that's true. Sid got killed before I could pick up the money and the file, and I think the killer got both of them. I need that money, 'cause I'm getting shitcanned off the Department before I can collect my pension, and I want the fucker who robbed me dead. You didn't make that smut back in '53, but whoever did killed Sid and robbed me. Give me the name and I'm yours."

Patchett smiled. Jack smiled--one last push before the pistolwhipping. "Pierce, the Nite Owl was smut and heroin--yours. Do you want to swing for that?"

Patchett pulled out a piece, shot him three times. Silencer thwaps--the slugs shattered the tape gizmo, bounced off his vest.

Three more shots--two in the vest, one wide.

Jack crashed into a table, came up aiming. A jammed slide, Patchett on him, two misfire clicks right up close. Patchett in his face, the knife out, a blind stab, a scream--the blade catching.

Patchett's left hand nailed to the table. Another scream, his right hand arcing--a hypo in it. The needle mainline close, stab, zooooom somewhere nice. Shots rifle loud, "No, Abe, no, Lee, no!" Flames, smoke, rolling away from the grief, so he could live to love the needle again, maybe see the funny man with his hand shivved to the table.

CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

The clock in his head was way off, his watch had quit working--he wasn't sure if it was Wednesday or Thursday. His Nite Owl "disclosure" ate up a whole evening--Dudley was so far ahead of him he never even took notes. The man left him at midnight, pumped up with bold language, no date for the strongarm cop's ball. Dud's date was Exley: clear the Nite Owl and ruin his career, seconds for Bad Bud White: "Think of grand ways to hurt him." Murder was all he could think of--a fair trade for Lynn; killing an LAPD captain was the springs in his clock all snapping--one more span of skewed time and he'd do it. Some point early A.M. Kathy Janeway hit him up--Kathy the way she looked then. She found him a date for the wee small hours--the man who killed her.

And Spade Cooley stood him up.

He went by the Biltmore, talked to the Cowboy Rhythm Band--Spade was still gone, Deuce Perkins was off on his own toot. The D.A.'s Bureau night clerk gave him the brush--were they even on the case? Another tear through Chinatown, a run by his apartment--a couple of I.A. hard-ons parked out front. A wolfed meal at a burger stand, dawn creeping up, a pile of _Heralds_ that told him it was Friday. A Nite Owl headline: jigs crying police brutality, Chief Parker promising justice.

He felt tired one second, keyed up the next. He tried to set his watch to the radio; the hands stuck; he threw a hundred-dollar Gruen out the window. Tired, he saw Kathy; keyed up, he saw Exley and Lynn. He drove to Nottingham Drive to check cars.

No white Packard--and Lynn always parked the same place. Bud walked around the building--no sign of Exley's blue Plymouth. A neighbor woman bringing in milk. She said, "Good morning. You're Miss Bracken's friend, aren't you?"

The old snoop-Lynn said she peeped bedrooms. "That's right."

"Well, as you can see, she's not here."

"Yeah, and you don't know where she is."

"Well..."

"Well what? You seen her with a man? Tall, glasses?"

"No, I haven't. And mind your tone, young man. Well what, indeed."

Bud badged her. "_Well what_, lady? You were gonna tell me something."

"Until you got cheeky, I was going to tell you where Miss Bracken went. I heard her talking to the manager last night. She was asking for directions."

"_Where to?_"

"Lake Arrowhead, and I would have told you before you got cheeky."

o o o

Exley's place, Inez told him about it, a cabin flying flags: American, state, LAPD. Bud drove to Arrowhead, cruised by the lake, found it: banners cutting wind, no blue Plymouth. Lynn's Packard in the driveway.

A brodie to the porch; a leap up the steps. Bud punched in a window, unlatched the door. No response to the noise--just a musty front room done up hunting lodge provincial.

He walked into the bedroom. Sweat stink, lipstick blots on the bed. He kicked the feathers out of the pillows, dumped the mattress, saw a leather binder underneath. Lynn's "Scarlet Letters" for sure--she'd been talking up her diary for years.

Bud grabbed it, got ready to rip--down the spine like his old phone book trick. The smell made him stop-if he didn't look, he was a coward.

Flip to the last page. Lynn's handwriting, bold black ink, the gold pen he'd bought her.

March 26, 1958

More on E.E. He just drove off and I could tell he was chagrined by all the things he told me last night. He looked vulnerable in the A.M. light, stumbling to the bathroom without his glasses. I pity Pierce his misfortune in encountering such an essentially frightened and unyielding man. E.E. makes love like my Wendell, like he never wants it to end, because when it ends he will have to return to what he is. He is perhaps the only man I have ever met who is as compromised as I am, who is so smart, circumspect and cautious that you can always see his wheels turning and thus wish you could always talk in the dark so that face value would be less complex. He is so smart and pragmatic that he makes W.W. appear childish and thus less heroic than he really is. And considering his dilemma, my betiayal of Pierce's friendship and patronage seem frankly callow. This man has been so obsessively beholden to his father for so long that the crux of it must influence every step he takes, yet he is still taking steps, which amazes me. E.E. didn't delve too far into specifics, but the basic thrust is that some of the more artful pornographic books that Pierce was selling five years ago have diagrams that match the mutilations on Sid Hudgens' body and the wounds on the victims of a murderer named Loren Atherton, who was apprehended by Preston Exley in the 1930s. P.E. is soon to announce his candidacy for governor and E.E. now considers that his father solved the Atherton case incorrectly and inferred that he suspects P.E. of establishing business relations with Raymond Dieterling at the time of that case (one of Atherton's victims was a Dieterling child star). Another strange crux: E.E., my trIs smart pragmatist, considers his father such a moral exemplar and paragon of efficacy that he is terrified of accepting normal incompetence and rational business self-interest as within the bounds of acceptable human behavior. He is afraid that solving his "Nite Owl related" cases will reveal P.E.'s fallibility to the world and destroy his gubernatorial chances, and he is obviously even more afraid of having to accept his father as a mortal, especially difficult since he has never accepted himself as one. But he will go ahead with his cases, deep down he seems quite determined. As much as I love him, in the same situation my Wendell would just shoot everyone involved, then look for somebody a bit more inteffigent to sort out the bodies, like that urbane Irishman Dudley Smith he always mentions. More on this and related matters after a walk, breakfast and three strong cups of coffee.

Now he ripped--down the spine, across the grain, leather and paper shredded to bits.

The phone, IAD direct. Buzz, buzz, "Internal Affairs, Kleckner."

"It's White. Put Exley on."

"White, you're in troub--" a new voice on the line. "This is Exley. White, where are you?"

"Arrowhead. I just read Lynn's diary and got the whole story on your old man, Atherton and Dieterling. _The whole fucking story_. I'm running a suspect down, and when I find him it's your daddy on the six o'clock news."

"I'll make a deal with you. Just listen."

"Never."

o o o

Back to L.A., the old Spade routine: Chinatown, the Strip, the Biltmore, his third circuit since time went haywire. The chinks were starting to look like the Cowboy Rhythm Band, the El Rancho guys were growing slant eyes. Every known haunt triple-checked, three times everything--except for a single hit on his agent.

Bud drove to Nat Penzler Associates. The connecting door was open--Mr. Natsky was eating a sandwich. He took a bite, said, "Oh shit."

"Spade's been ditching out on his gig. He must be costing you money."

Penzler eased a hand behind his desk. "Caveman, if you knew the grief my clients cause me."

"You don't sound so concerned."

"Bad pennies always turn up."

"Do you know where he is?"

Penzler brought his hand up. "My guess is on the planet Pluto, hanging out with his pal Jack Daniels."

"What were you doing with your hand?"

"Scratching my balls. You want the job? It pays five yards a week, but you have to kick back ten percent to your agent."

"Where is he?"

"He is somewhere in the vicinity of nowhere I know. Check with me next week and write when you get brains."

"Like that, huh?"

"Caveman, if I knew would I withhold from a bruiser like you?" Bud kicked him out of his chair. Penzler hit the floor; the chair spun, tipped. Bud reached under the desk, pulled out a bundle wrapped with string. A foot on top, a jerk on the knot--clean black cowboy shirts.

Penzler stood up. "Lincoln Heights. The basement at Sammy Ling's, and you didn't get it from Natsky."

o o o

Ling's Chow Mein: a dive on Broadway up from Chinatown. Parking spaces in back; a rear entrance to the kitchen. No outside basement access, steam shooting from an underground vent. Bud circled the place, heard voices out the vent. Make the trapdoor in the kitchen.

He found a two-by-four in the lot, went in the back way. Two slants frying meat, an old geek skinning a duck. A fix on the trapdoor, easy: lift the pallet by the oven.

They spotted him. The young chinks jabbered; Papa-san waved them quiet. Bud held his shield out.

The old man rubbed fingers. "I pay! I pay I pay! You go!"

"Spade Cooley, Papa. You go downstairs and tell him Natsky brought the laundry. Chop-chop."

"Spade pay! You leave alone! I pay! I pay!"

The kids circled. Papa-san waved his cleaver.

"You go now! Go now! I pay!"

Bud fixed a line on the floor. Papa stepped over it.

Bud swung his stick--pops caught it waist-high. He crashed into the stove, his face hit a burner, his hair caught fire. The kids charged; Bud got their legs in one shot. They hit the floor tangled up-Bud smashed in their ribs. Pops doused his head in the sink, charged with his face scorched black.

A roundhouse to the knees--Papa went down glued to that cleaver. Bud stepped on his hand, cracked the fingers--Papa let go screaming. Bud dragged him to the oven, kicked the pallet loose. Yank the trapdoor, drag the old man downstairs.

Fumes: opium, steam. Bud kicked Papa-san quiet. Through the fumes: dope suckers on mattresses.

Bud kicked through them. All chinks--they grumbled, swatted, sucked back to dreamland. Smoke: in his face, up his nose, breathing hard so he took it down his lungs. Steam like a beacon: a sweat room at the back.

He kicked over to the door. Through a mist: naked Spade Cooley, three naked girls. Giggles, arms and legs cockeyed--an orgy on a slippery tile bench. Spade so tangled up in women that you couldn't shoot him clean.

Bud flipped a wall switch. The steam died, the mist fizzled. Spade looked over. Bud took his gun out.

KILL HIM.

Cooley moved first: a shield, two girls pressed tight. Bud moved in--yanking arms, legs, nails raking his face. The girls slipped, stumbled, tumbled out the door. Spade said, "Jesus, Mary and Joseph."

Smoke inside him, brewing up his very own dreamland. Last rites, stretch the moment. "Kathy Janeway, Jane Mildred Hamsher, Lynette Ellen Kendrick, Sharon--"

Cooley yelled, "GODDAMN YOU IT'S PERKINS!"

The moment snapped--Bud saw his gun half-triggered. Colors swirled around him; Cooley talked rapid fire. "I saw Deuce with that last girlie, that Kendrick. I know'd he liked to hurt hooers, and when that last girlie turned up dead on the TV I asked him 'bout it. Deuce, he like to scared me to death, so's I took off on this here toot. Mister, you gotta believe me."

Color flashes: Deuce Perkins, plain vicious. One color blinking-- turquoise, Spade's hands. "Those rings, where'd you get them?"

Cooley pulled a towel over his lap. "Deuce, he makes them. He brings a hobby kit with him on the road. He's been crackin' all these vague-type jokes for years, how they protects his hands for his intimate-type work, and now I know what he means."

"Opium. Can he get it?"

"That cracker shitbird steals my shit! Mister, you gotta believe me!"

Starting to. "My killing dates put you in the right place to do the jobs. Just you. Your booking records show different goddamn guys traveling with you, so how do you--"

"Deuce, he's been my road manager since '49, he always travels with me. Mister, you gotta believe me!"

"_Where is he?_"

"I don't know!"

"Girlfriends, buddies, other perverts. _Give_."

"That miserable sumbitch got no friends I know of 'cept that wop shitbird Johnny Stompanato. Mister, you gotta believe--"

"I believe you. You believe I'll kill you if you scare him away from me?"

"Praise Jesus, I believe."

Bud walked into the smoke. The chinks were still on the nod, Papa was just barely breathing.

o o o

R&I on Perkins:

No California beefs, clean on his Alabama parole--he'd spent '44--'46 on a chain gang for animal sodomy. Transient musician, no known address listed. K.A. confirmation on Johnny Stompanato--ditto Lee Vachss and Abe Teitlebaum--mob punks all. Bud hung up, remembered a talk with Jack Vincennes--he'd rousted Deuce at a _Badge of Honor_ party-- Johnny, Teitlebaum and Vachss were there with him.

Kid gloves: Johnny used to be his snitch, Johnny hated him, feared him.

Bud called the DMV, got Stomp's phone number--ten rings, no answer. Two more no-answers: the Cowboy Rhythm Band at the Biltmore, the El Rancho. Kikey Teitlebaum's deli next-- Kikey and Johnny were tight.

A run out Pico, shaking off fumes. A keen edge settling in: get Perkins alone, kill him. Then Exley.

Bud parked, looked in the window. A slow afternoon, pay dirt--Johnny Stomp, Kikey T. at a table.

He walked in. They spotted him, whispered. Years since he'd seen them--Abe was fatter, Stomp still guinea slick.

Kikey waved. Bud grabbed a chair, carried it over. Stomp said, "Wendell White. How's tricks, _paesano?_"

"Tricky. How's tricks with Lana Turner?"

"Trickier. Who told you?"

"Mickey C."

Teitlebaum laughed. "Must have a hole like the Third Street Tunnel. Johnny's leaving for Acapulco with her tonight, and me, I shack with Sadie five-fingers. White, what brings you here? I ain't seen you since Dick Stens used to work for me."

"I'm looking for Deuce Perkins."

Johnny tap-tapped the table. "So talk to Spade Cooley."

"Spade don't know where he is."

"So why ask me? Mickey tell you Deuce and me are close?" No ritual question: what do you want him for? And fat-mouth Kikey too quiet. "Spade said you and him were acquaintances."

"Acquaintances is right. We go back, _paesano_, so I'll tell you I haven't seen Deuce in years."

Change-up pitch. "You ain't my _paesano_, you wop cocksucker." Johnny smiled, maybe relieved, their old cop-snitch game one more time. A look at Kikey--the fat man working on spooked. "Abe, you're tight with Perkins, right?"

"Nix. Deuce is too meshugeneh for me. He's just a guy to say hi to once in a blue fucking moon."

A lie--Perkins' rap sheet said different. "So maybe I'm confused. I know you guys are tight with Lee Vachss, and I heard him and Deuce are tight."

Kikey laughed--too stagy. "What a yuck. Johnny, I think Wendell here is really confused."

Stomp said, "Oil and water, those two. Tight? What a howl."

_Standing up for Vachss for no reason_. "You guys are the howl. I figured you'd ask me what the grief was right off."

Kikey pushed his plate aside. "It occur to you we just don't care?"

"Yeah, but you guys love to shmooz and milk the grapevine."

"So shmooz."

A rumor: Kikey beat a guy to death for calling him a yid. "I'll shmooz, it's a nice day and I got nothing better to do than hobnob with a greasy wop and a fat yid."

Abe ho-ho-ho'd, cuffed his arm oh-you-kid. "You're a pisser. So what do you want Deuce for?"

Bud cuffed him back hard--"None of your fucking business, Jewboy"--throw a change-up to Johnny. "What are you doing now that Mickey's out?"

Tap, tap, tap----a pinky ring on a bottle of Schlitz. "Nothing you'd be interested in. I got things contained, so don't you worry. What are _you_ doing?"

"I'm on the Nite Owl reopening."

Johnny tap-tapped too hard--his bottle almost tipped. Kikey, working on pale. "You don't think Deuce Perkins . .

Stompanato: "Come on, Abe. Deuce for the Nite Owl, what a howl."

Bud said, "I gotta piss," walked to the bathroom. He closed the door, counted to ten, opened it a crack. The shitbirds spieling full blast--Abe wiping his face with a napkin. Let the pieces fit in.

Hink: Deuce for the Nite Owl.

Jack V. spotted Vachss, Stomp, Kikey and Perkins at a party--maybe a year pre--Nite Owl.

A Mobster Squad roust, a snitch off Joe Sifakis: _three-man_ trigger gangs clipping Cohen franchise hoods, maverick hoods. The Victory Motel buzzing hard.

Bud grabbed the piece, dropped it, grabbed it.

"Contain."

Dudley's favorite big word--"containment."

His motel pitch: "containing," "profit dispensation," "obstreperous Italian you've dealt with in the past"--Johnny Stomp an old snitch who hated him. Dud hot for his "full disclosure"; the Lamar Hinton roust--a shakedown for Nite Owl information, Dot Rothstein there, Kikey Teitlebaum's cousin--

Bud washed his face, walked back calm. Stomp said, "Have a good one?"

"Yeah, and you're right. I want Deuce for some old warrants, but I got a hunch on the Nite Owl."

Calm Johnny: "Oh, yeah?"

Calm Kikey: "Some new shvoogies, right? All I know's what I read in the papers."

Bud: "Maybe, but if it wasn't some new niggers, then that purple car by the Nite Owl was a plant. Take care, guys. If you see Deuce, tell him to call me at the Bureau."

Calm Johnny tap-tap-tapped.

Calm Kikey coughed, popped sweat.

Calm Bud, not so calm: out to the car, around the corner to a pay phone. The P.C. Bell police number, one long fucking wait.

"Uh, yes, who's requesting?"

"Sergeant White, LAPD. It's a trace job."

"For when, Sergeant?"

"_For now_. It's a homicide priority, private lines and pay phones at a restaurant. _It's now_."

"One second, please."

Transfer click-click-clicks--a new woman. "Sergeant, what exactly do you need?"

No Calm Bud. "Abe's Noshery at Pico and Veteran. All calls out on all phones for the next fifteen goddamn minutes. Lady, don't hump me on this."

"We can't initiate actual traces, Officer."

"Just who the calls are to, goddamn it."

"Well, if it _is_ a homicide priority. What is your number now?"

Bud read off the phone. "GRanite 48112."

Harumph. "Fifteen minutes then. And next time allow us more operating leeway."

Bud hung up--Dudley Dudley Dudley Dudley Dudley--hard time cut off by _brrrinnngg_. He grabbed the phone, fumbled it, cradled it. "Yeah?"

"Two calls. One to DUnkirk 32758--a Miss Dot Rothstein holds that number. The second to AXminster 46811, the residence of a Mr. Dudley L. Smith."

Bud dropped the receiver. The clerk babbled from someplace safe and calm that he'd never see again--no Lynn, no safety in a badge.

Captain Dudley Liam Smith for the Nite Owl.

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

Jack Vincennes confessed.

He confessed to knocking up a girl at the St. Anatole's Orphan Home, to killing Mr. and Mrs. Harold J. Scoggins. He confessed to tank-jobbing Bill McPherson with a hot little nigger girl, to planting dope on Charlie Parker, to shaking down hopheads for _Hush-Hush_ Magazine. He tried to jerk out of bed and raise his hands to form the Stations of the Cross. He babbled something like hub rachmones, Mickey, and bump bump bump bump the cute train. He confessed to beating up junkies, to running bag for Ellis Loew. He begged his wife to forgive him for fucking whores who looked like women in dirty picture books. He confessed that he loved dope and was unfit to love Jesus.

Karen Vincennes stood by weeping: she couldn't listen, she had to listen. Ed tried to shoo her out--she wouldn't let him. He called the Bureau from outside Arrowhead; Fisk gave him the word: Pierce Patchett shot and killed last night, his mansion torched, burned to the ground. Fireman had discovered Vincennes in the backyard--smoke inhalation, rips in his bulletproof vest. They got him to Central Receiving, a doctor took a blood sample. The results: Trashcan on a test flight, a heroin/antipsychotic drug compound. He'd live, he'd be fine--when the OD in his system flushed out.

A nurse swabbed Vincennes' face; Karen fretted Kleenex. Ed checked Fisk's memo: "Inez Soto called. No info on R.D. $ dealings. R.D. suspicious of queries?? ?--she was cryptic--D.W."

Ed crumpled it, tossed it. Vincennes went in barefoot--while he was shacked with Lynn. Somebody killed Patchett, left them both to burn.

Burned like Exley father and son--Bud White holding the torch.

He couldn't look at Karen.

"Captain, I've got something."

Fisk in the hallway. Ed walked over, led him away from the door. "What is it?"

"Nort Layman completed the autopsy. Patchett's cause of death was five .30-30 slugs fired from two different rifles. Ray Pinker ran ballistics tests and came up with a match to an old Riverside County bulletin. May of '55, unsolved with no leads, I checked. Two men gunned down outside a tavern. It looked like a gangland job."

All coming down to the heroin. "That's all you've got?"

"No. Bud White tore up a dope den in Chinatown and beat three Chinamen half to death. He came in asking questions, badged them and went crazy. One of them ID'd his personnel photo. Thad Green called l.A. on it, and I caught the squeal. Pickup order, sir? I know you want him and Chief Green said it's your call."

Ed almost laughed. "No, no pickup order."

"Sir?"

"I said no, so cut it off there. And you and Kleckner do this for me. Contact Miller Stanton, Max Pelts, Timmy Valburn and Billy Dieterling. Have them come to my office tonight at 8:00 for questioning. Tell them I'm the investigating officer, and if they want no publicity, then bring no lawyers. And get me Homicide's file on the old Loren Atherton case. Seal it, Sergeant. I don't want you to look at it."

"Sir..."

Ed turned away. Karen in the doorway, dry-eyed. "Do you think Jack did those things?"

"Yes."

"He musm't know that I know. Will you promise not to tell him?"

Ed nodded, looked in the room. The Big V begged for communion.

CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

A file room at the main DMV-- boxes stacked shoulder-high. A confirmation search--a riff on Johnny and Kikey's last hink. Riff in, out, back, around--he was so high he could think it through and prowl registration records at the same time.

Make Stomp, Teitlebaum and Lee Vachss for the Nite Owl triggers; make them the shooter gang bumping upstart mobsters and Cohen franchise holders. Deuce Perkins was part of the gang--the others didn't know he beat hookers to death--they'd consider it amateur shit, wouldn't tolerate it. Dudley was the leader--he couldn't be anything else. All his job offer stuff was a try at recruiting him; the Lamar Hinton roust was Dud frosting out loose ends on the Patchett side of things--make Patchett and Smith some kind of K.A.'s, make Hinton dead, Breuning and Carlisle part of the gang. "Contain," "Contained," "Containment," "Profit Dispensation." Call it Dudley trying to control the L.A. rackets--and pin the Nite Owl on a new bunch of jigs.

Bud tore through boxes: auto registrations, early April '53. Schoolboy thinkm he figured the car by the Nite Owl was a plant; the shotguns in Coates' car, the shells in Griffith Park, both plants--the killers followed the case, got lucky on the Merc, found some boogies to take the heat. Wrong--LAPD conspirators were in on the job. They read crime reports, got hipped to some joyriding spooks firing shotguns--lay the onus on them-- they figured the arresting officers would kill them, case closed.

So they got themselves a car that matched the crime report description. They made sure it was spotted near the Nite Owl. They wouldn't steal a car--cops wouldn't risk a late night roust. They didn't buy a purple car--they bought a different colored one and painted it.

Bud kept working. No logic to the file mess: Mercs, Chevies, Caddies, L.A., Sacramento, Frisco, whoever registered the car would've used a phony name. One luck-out: the registers' race, DOB and physical stats listed on cards attached to the initial purchase carbons. Facts to eliminate against, like he learned in school: '48--'50 Mercs, Southern California purchasers, stats that matched to Dudley, Stomp, Vachss, Teitlebaum, Perkins, Carlisle and Breuning. Hours of digging, a pile inches thick--then a strange one that felt warm.

1948 primer-gray Merc coupe, purchased April 10, 1953. Register: Margaret Louise March, W.F., DOB 7/23/18, brown and brown, 5 '9", 215 lbs. Register's address: 1804 East Oxford, Los Angeles. Phone number: NOrmandie 32758.

Warm to scalding--Fat Dot Rothstein's specs. Oxford ran north-south--not east-west. The call to Dot from the Noshery-- DU-32758--the dumb dyke tacked her own number onto a different exchange.

And bought herself some purple paint.

Bud whooped, punched the air, kicked boxes. Two cases made in one day--if anyone believed him. All dressed up and no one to kill. Circumstantial Dudley evidence--no hard proof. Dudley too well placed to fall, nobody who cared like he did.

Except Exley.

CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

A stakeout on the house he grew up in. He couldn't go in and question his father; he couldn't ask for his help. He couldn't tell the man he confided secrets to a woman--and gave a brutal enemy the means to patricide. He brought the Atherton file with him--there was nothing in it he didn't already know, the man who made the smut and killed Sid Hudgens was intrinsic to the Atherton murders, maybe the killer himself--truths Preston Exley would dispute out of pride. He couldn't go in; he couldn't stop thinking. He counted memories instead.

His father bought the house for his mother; it was really just a sop to his pride--the Exleys flee the middle class grandly. They never had Christmas lights on the lawn--Preston Exley said it was lowlife. Thomas fell off balconies--and had the style not to cry. His father threw him a "back from the war" party--only the mayor, the City Council and LAPD men who could further his career were invited.

Art De Spain walked to his car, looking frail, one arm bandaged. Ed watched him drive off, his father's man, his Dutch uncle. Memory: Art said he wasn't cut out to be a detective.

The house loomed big and cold. Ed drove back to the hospital.

o o o

Trash was up, giving Fisk a statement. Ed watched from the doorway.

". . . and I was playing off Exley's script. I don't remember exactly what I said, but Patchett pulled out a gun and shot me. That shit piece Exley gave me jammed, and Patchett slammed me with a hypo. Then I heard shots and 'No, Abe, no, Lee, no.' And now you know as much as I do."

From the hall, loud: "Abe Teitlebaum, Johnny Stompanato and Lee Vachss. They did the Nite Owl. Throw in Deuce Perkins as part of the gang and get ready to shit when I tell you who else I got."

Ed smelled his sweat, his breath. White pushed him inside-- firm, not too rough. "Put our stuff aside for a minute. Did you hear what I said?"

The names registered: gang muscle, a not-bad line to HEROIN. 'White looked insane--disheveled, a zealot. Fisk said, "Sir, do you want me to . .

Ed moved his shoulders--White dropped his hands right on cue. "Two minutes, _Captain_."

Scared--_be a captain_. "Duane, go get yourself some coffee. White, get my interest before I ream you for the Chinamen."

Fisk walked out. Ed said, "Jack, you stay. White, you keep my interest."

White closed the door. Disheveled: soiled clothes, inksmudged hands. "Good I heard the radio on you, Trashcan. I didn't know you were here, I mighta tried to do it all myself."

Vincennes, on the bed looking queasy. "Do _what?_ Abe, Lee. You make Teitlebaum and Vachss for Patchett, spell it out."

Ed: "You look Crim 101, White. Make like you're writing an occurrence chronology."

White smiled--pure kamikaze. "I been tracking a string of hooker killings for years. It started with this girl Kathy Janeway. She got snuffed back in '53, right around the Nite Owl. She was Duke Cathcart's girlfriend."

Ed nodded. "I know that story. I.A. ran a personal on you when you passed the sergeant's exam."

"Oh, yeah? What you don't know is that a few years ago my case broke. I thought my killer was Spade Cooley--his band was in all the hooker snuff cities on the DODs. I was wrong. Cooley ratted off the real killer--Burt Arthur Perkins."

Vincennes spoke up. "I buy Deuce as a woman killer. He's wrong to the core."

White said, "You should know, 'cause Cooley said he was pals with Johnny Stompanato, and back around '52 you told me you rousted him hanging out with Johnny Stomp, Kikey T. and Lee Vachss. Cooley told me Johnny and Deuce were tight, so I went looking for Johnny."

Ed said, "All right, so you went to Stompanato."

White lit a cigarette. "Nix. Now I tell you that Dudley Smith has been using me for strongarm jobs on the Mobster Squad going back years. You know how he talks? 'Containment,' that's one of his favorite words. Contain crime, contain this, contain that. He's been beating around the bush about offering me outside work, and the other night he said I could be useful keeping the 'obstreperous Italian' that's afraid of me in line. Johnny Stomp's afraid of me--he used to snitch for me and I used to muscle him good. You know how Dud's this so-called gangland peacemaker? Well, the other night him, Carlisle and Breuning worked over this guy Lamar Hinton at the Victory, supposedly a Mobster Squad job. Bullshit--all Dudley asked him about was Nite Owl stuff--smut, Pierce Patchett."

Ed, bug-eyed: this can't be coming. "So you went to Stompanato looking for Perkins."

"Right. I go to Kike's deli, and Johnny's there with Kikey. I ask Johnny about Deuce, and Johnny's all hiked. Kikey's hinked worse and they both lie and say Deuce is just some bumfuck acquaintance. They deny that Deuce is tight with Lee Vachss, when I know goddamn otherwise. Johnny uses the word 'containment,' which is not a Johnny-type word. Hink all over these guys, and I drop that I'm on the Nite Owl reopening and they almost shit, Deuce for the Nite Owl, ho, ho. I leave, go to a pay phone and have P.C. Bell put a fifteen-minute trace on all calls out of the deli. Two calls--one to Dot Rothstein, Dudley's good pal and Kikey's cousin, one to Dudley's house."

Vincennes said, "Holy fucking shit." Ed jerked a hand to his gun--wrong--White was a cop. "Give me corroboration."

White flicked his smoke out the window. "Crim 101. The niggers didn't do it, so Dud and his gang planted a car by the Nite Owl. I went to the DMV and checked April '53 registrations, Caucasians this time. Dot Rothstein bought a '48 Merc, primer gray, on April 10. A phony name, a phony address, but the stupid bitch used the real digits on her own phone number."

Vincennes looked shell-shocked. Ed reeled in a line so he wouldn't scream DUDLEY. "Right before the Nite Owl I was working late at Hollywood Station. Spade Cooley was playing a retirement party downstairs, and I saw Burt Perkins roaming the halls. Try this theory: Mal Lunceford, ex--LAPD patrolman. Call him the forgotten Nite Owl victim, and remember he worked Hollywood Division for most of his time on the Department. Now, did one of the shooters have a grudge against Lunceford? Was Perkins removing records of it that night at the station? Did the conspirators know that Lunceford was a Nite Owl regular and plan their Cathcart or Cathcart-impersonator hit so that they could clip him too?"

White answered. "Dudley put me on the Lunceford background check, probably because he thought I'd fuck it up. I checked for old Lunceford F.I.'s and couldn't find a goddamn one. I buy that theory."

DUDLEY past screaming--Ed held it down. Vincennes: "Fisk told me about Patchett, how he got the Cohen-Dragna summit heroin, how him and this unnamed bad guy who's obviously Dudley were getting ready to push it. Now, I know for a fact that Dud bodyguarded that deal, and there was this rumor floating around years ago--that Dud led this posse that killed this guy Buzz Meeks who heisted the summit. Fisk said that Patchett got most of the white horse that got clouted, some from the Englekling brothers and their father, some from this bad guy who's obviously Dudley. Okay, so what I'm thinking is-could Lunceford have been in on the posse? Was that when Dudley got the dope?"

White shook his head--new stuff for him. "You fill me in on that, because I got a lead that ties in. Dud was talking up his containment shit, and he said something about keeping the niggers sedated, which sounds like heroin to me."

Ed said, "Call that done for now. Jack, run with the Goldman-- Van Gelder angle. Put it together with our new leads."

Trash stood up, steadied himself on the bed rail. "Okay, let's say Davey G. was in with Dudley, Stompanato, Kikey, Vachss and Dot. How any of them could trust a psycho like Deuce I don't know, but fuck it. Anyway, they're all conspiring against Mickey C. White, you don't know this, but Goldman had a bug in Mickey's cell at McNeil. I'm betting Dudley and his friends were in with Davey from the beginning, but fuck it, however it happened, Davey heard the Englekling brothers approach Mickey with Duke Cathcart's smut deal."

Ed raised a hand. "Chester Yorkin said that the man who brought Patchett the bulk of the heroin--let's assume it's Dudley--had a hard-on for smut and quote 'contacts in South America and pervert mailing lists.' I always wondered about the profit on pornography, and now Dudley's connection makes it seem more feasible."

Vincennes said, "Let me keep going. Dud worked with the OSS in Paraguay after the war and he ran Ad Vice back in '39 or so, so I know he's got those contacts, but sit on that. Right now we've got Goldman going to Smith and Stompanato with the word on the smut plan. Everybody, especially Dud, likes the idea, and they decide to crash the racket. On his own, a double cross, I don't know, Davey sends Dean Van Gelder, his prison visitor, to talk to Cathcart. Van Gelder decides to crash Duke's prostie racket and the smut gig on his own. He'd been seen by Davey face-to-face, but the outside prison men had never seen him. He figured he looked like Cathcart, so he could impersonate Cathcart and cut his own deal. By the time the impersonation was found out he'd be too far in good with the outside men for Davey to care what he'd done. So Van Gelder moved to San Berdoo to be close to the Englekling brothers. He fell in with Sue Lefferts and snuffed Duke. He knew the names of at least one of the outside men, called them at a pay phone from the Lefferts' house and asked for a meet. He went in tough and suggested a public place, he figured Sue could sit nearby and he'd be safe. One of the outside guys put Lunceford together with the Nite Owl and said let's meet there. Dud or one of his guys approached Patchett right _before_ the Nite Owl and told him to get his loose ends tidied. Patchett didn't know exactly what was gonna happen, but he had Chris Bergeron and her kid and Bobby Inge blow town just as I was starting in on the smut gig for Ad Vice."

An air-cooled room--Ed felt every word boost the temperature. "Let me throw out a chronology, starting right after Van Gelder as Cathcart contacts the outside men. Now, we know Dudley loves pornography, we know he's been sitting on eighteen pounds of'H' since the Cohen-Dragna deal. Try this theory: he breaks into Cathcart's apartment and finds something that leads him to Patchett, something that includes mention of his chemistry background and his connection to old Dr. Englekling. He goes to Patchett, they strike a deal--develop the heroin, push the smut. He's astounded that Patchett's thinking along the same lines, that he's already got some of the horse from Doc Englekling. Now Dudley wants Cathcart killed, Mal Lunceford silenced for whatever reason--and he wants Patchett terrified. He's a policeman, and he's read about those Negroes discharging shotguns in Griffith Park. He sets up the meet at the Nite Owl, knowing Lunceford will be there, and Jack's right--he was ambiguous, but he told Patchett to get rid of his loose ends. Moving ahead, the investigation goes wider than Dudley thinks it will--because the Negroes don't get killed during their arrest, and they don't confess. He puts White on the Cathcart background check, and he probably _didn't_ know that Perkins killed the Janeway girl, but he wanted White steered away from getting involved on general principles--he wanted him to steer clear of possible Cathcart--Nite Owl connections."

All eyes on Bud White. The zealot: "Okay, Dudley put me on the Cathcart check because he thought I'd screw up. But I checked out Duke's pad and saw that it was print-wiped, and I figured that somebody had tried on his clothes. The Dudley guys wiped the place, but they didn't touch the phone books, and I could tell that the San Berdoo printshop listings had been looked over. Now, I got a theory. When I was on the Carthcart check, I met Kathy Janeway at this motel out in the valley. Two days later she's raped and killed. When I left the motel I thought I was being tailed, but then I forgot about it. I think the tail was Deuce Perkins. I think Dud put a tail on Cathcart's K.A.'s, just to keep tabs on the investigation, which explains how he's always known so much about all this stuff that I've always kept secret. So Deuce, who's a rape-o shitbird psycho, sees Kathy and goes for her. Maybe Dudley knew he killed her, maybe he didn't. Either way he fucking pays."

Vincennes lit a cigarette, coughed. "We've got no evidence, but I've got some more stuff to tie in. One, Doc Layman took five .30-30 slugs out of Patchett, and he said they match this gang unsolved in Riverside County. When Davey Goldman was babbling away up in Camarillo, he said something about three triggers. He babbled some other stuff that keeps running through my head, but it doesn't make any sense. Exley, did you listen to that tape I found at McNeil?"

Ed nodded. "You're right. Nothing salient at all, just a passing mention of some gang hits."

White: "There's been a bunch of mob unsolveds. I know, 'cause a suspect spilled some tangent stuff on them on a Mobster Squad roust. Always three triggers, Cohen franchise holders and upstart hoods clipped. Easy money: Stompanato, Vachss and Teitlebaum keeping things copacetic for Mickey C's parole. They wanted to keep things chilled for their containment gig and they figured when Mickey got out they'd test the wind and either clip him or use him. My bet's on clip. They had Cohen and Goldman bushwhacked in prison--a pure cross on Davey. Mickey's house got bombed and Mickey lived to tell. They'll clip him before too long and they'll contain real good, 'cause Dud's Mr. Mobster Squad and he's got Parker's fucking--what's the word? mandate?--to keep out-of-town muscle out. Do you fucking believe it?"

Trash laughed. "Grand, lad, grand. And all the hits were paving the way for Dud to push Patchett's heroin. He got the command on the reopening so he could find some new patsies, and he's set to push the horse. He's got the smut stashed, and he didn't warn Patchett about the investigation because he was already planning to kill him. He didn't touch Lynn Bracken, because he figured Patchett kept her in the dark on all his worst stuff. He let her come in for questioning because he figured she'd stall Exley's part of the investigation."

Lynn Bracken.

Ed winced, moved toward the door. "And we still don't know who made the smut and killed Hudgens. Or the Englekling brothers, which doesn't look like a pro job. White, you went up to Gaitsville with Dudley, and he submitted a soft-pedal report on--"

"It was another psycho job. Heroin lying around, and the killer just left it. He tortured the brothers with chemicals and burned up a bunch of smut negatives with acid solutions. The lab tech said he thought the killer was trying to ID the people in the pictures. The chemistry stuff made me think Patchett, but then I thought he must've already known who the picture people were. I don't really think their heroin ties to our heroin, the brothers were dope peddlers on and off for years. Chemists and dope peddlers, and if Patchett wanted their dope, he would've stolen it. I think the brothers got killed by somebody, I don't know, outside the center of this mess."

Trash sighed. "_There's no evidence_. Patchett and the whole Englekling family are dead, and Dud probably killed Lamar Hinton. You got nothing at the Fleur-de-Lis drop and White's little grandstand with Stompanato and Teitlebaum means that now Dudley's been alerted and he's taking care of _his_ loose ends. I don't think we've got much of a case."

Ed thought it through. "Chester Yorkin told me Patchett had a booby-trapped safe outside his house. The house is being guarded now, the West L.A. squad has a team on it. In a day or so, I'll go lift the guards. There might be something in that safe that nails Dudley."

White said, "So right now, what? No evidence, and Stompanato's leaving for Acapulco today with Lana Turner. What now?"

Ed opened the door--Fisk was outside drinking coffee. "Duane, get back in touch with Valburn, Stanton, Billy Dieterling and Pelts. Change the meeting to the downtown Statler at 8:00. Call the hotel and set up three suites and call Bob Gallaudet and tell him to call me here--tell him it's urgent."

Fisk went for a phone. Vincennes said, "You're hitting the Hudgens end."

Ed turned away from White. "_Think_. Dudley's a policeman. We need evidence, and we may get it tonight."

"I'll take Stanton. We used to be friends."

Line it--a Dieterling kid star, Preston Exley. "No . . . I mean are you up to it?"

"It's my case too, Captain. I've come this far, and I went up against Patchett for you and damn near got killed."

Weigh the risk. "All right, you take Stanton."

Trash rubbed his face--pale, stubbled. "Did I . . . I mean when Karen was here and I was unconscious . . . did I . .

"She doesn't know anything you don't want her to. Now go home, I want to talk to White."

Vincennes walked out--ten years older in a day. White said, "The Hudgens end is bullshit. It's all Dudley now."

"No. First we buy some time."

"Protecting Daddy? Jesus, and I thought I was dumb on women."

"_Just think_. Think what Dudley is and what taking him down means. Think, and I'll make you a deal."

"I told you _never_."

"You'll like this one. You keep quiet about my father and the Atherton case and I'll let you have Dudley and Perkins."

White laughed. "The collars? I got them anyway."

"No. I'll let you kill them."

CHAPTER SEVENTY

Exley's rule rankled: no hitting, Billy and Timmy were too upscale to take muscle. Hotel good guy/bad guy rankled--they should be muscling Dudley at the Victory. Bob Gallaudet took Max Pelts; Trashcan was grilling Miller Stanton. Gallaudet got briefed by Exley--everything but the Atherton angle. He thought he could prosecute Dudley Smith, Exley didn't tell him Dud and Deuce Perkins were paid for. Fucking Exley wouldn't let him out of his sight--he took him through every piece of the case step by step, like they were partners who could trust each other. The case all put together was amazing, Exley had an amazing fucking brain--but he was stupid if he didn't know one thing: after Dudley and Deuce, Preston E. was next. Easy: Dick Stens wouldn't have it otherwise.

Bud watched--a crack in the bathroom doorway.

The queers sat side by side; Mr. Good Guy pussyfooted. Yes, they bought Fleur-de-Lis dope; yes, they knew Pierce Patchett "socially." Yes, Pierce snorted "H," we heard rumors he sold pornographic books--but we never indulged in such things. Kid gloves: the fruits thought the Patchett snuff was why they got the royal hotel treatment. Captain Exley would never be nasty-- Preston Exley was running for governor, Ray Dieterling throwing hot financial backup.

Exley, loud. "Gentlemen, there's an old homicide that might tie in to the Patchett killing."

Bud walked in. Exley said, "This is Sergeant White. He has a few questions for you, then I think we can wrap it up."

Timmy Valburn sighed. "Well, I'm not surprised. Miller Stanton and Max Pelts are down the hall, and the last time the police questioned all of us was when that awful man Sid Hudgens was killed. So _I'm_ not surprised."

Bud pulled a chair up. "Why'd you say 'awful'? You kill him?"

"Oh, Sergeant _really_. Do I look like the killer type to you?"

"Yeah, you do. Guy who makes his living playing a mouse has gotta be capable of anything."

"Sergeant, _really_."

"Besides, _you_ weren't called in on the Hudgens job. Billy tell you about it? A little pillow talk, maybe?"

Billy Dieterling to Exley. "Captain, I don't like this man's tone."

Exley said, "Sergeant, keep it clean."

Bud laughed. "That's the pot calling the kettle black, but screw it. You guys alibied each other for Hudgens, now it's five years later and you alibi each other up for Patchett. Hinky to me. My take on fruits is that they can't stick to the same bed for five minutes, let alone five years."

Valburn: "You're an animal."

Bud pulled out a file sheet. "Alibis on the Hudgens case. You and Billy in bed together, Max Pelts porking some teenage quiff. Miller Stanton at a party where your queer buddy Brett Chase also happens to be. So far, we got a real all-American crew on _Badge of Honor_. David Mertens the set man, he's at home with his male nurse, so maybe he's fruit, too. What I want--"

Exley, on cue: "Sergeant, watch your language and get to the point."

Valburn seethed; Billy D. faked boredom. But something in the last spiel nudged him--his eyes went from good guy to bad guy. "The point is that Sid Hudgens had a boner for _Badge of Honor_ at the time he was killed. Patchett gets killed five years later, and him and Hudgens were partners. These homos here, they're both tied to _Badge of Honor_ and they kicked loose with intimate details on Patchett's rackets. Captain, if it walks, talks and quacks like a duck, then it's a duck--not a mouse."

Valburn said, "Quack, quack, idiot. Captain, will you tell this man who he's dealing with?"

Exley, stern. "Sergeant, these gentlemen aren't suspects. They're voluntary interviewees."

"Well, shit, sir, I don't see no difference."

Exley, exasperated. "Gentlemen, to end this once and for all, please tell the sergeant. Did either of you even know Sid Hudgens personally?"

Two "No" head shakes. Bud flew--Exley poetry. "If it squeaks like a mouse and swishes, it's a queer mouse. Captain, think. These guys bought dope off Fleur-de-Lis, and they admitted they knew Patchett sniffed horse and pushed pornography. They've got the lowdown on Patchett's rackets, but they claim they didn't know Patchett and Hudgens were partners. I say we take them through Patchett's little enterprises and see what they do know."

Exley raised his hands--fake helpless. "A few more specific questions then, gentlemen. Again, anything illegal that you admit to will be overlooked--and will not go outside this room. Do you understand, Sergeant?"

Fucking brilliant: build them up to who made the blood smut. Trash said Timmy was spooked by the stuff--he showed it to him in '53. Credit Exley with balls--the closer they got to the smut the closer they got to his old man and Atherton. "Okay, sir."

Timmy and Billy shared a look: nice people strafed by low class. Exley flashed it over. "And, Sergeant--I'll ask the questions."

"Yes, sir. You guys tell the truth. I'll know if you're lying."

Exley sighed. "Just a few questions. First, did you know that Patchett procured call girls for business associates?"

Two "Yes" nods. Bud said, "He ran boys, too. You guys ever buy any outside stuff?"

Exley: "Not another word, Sergeant."

Timmy slid closer to Billy. "I won't dignify that last question with an answer."

Bud winked. "You're cute. I ever wind up in stir, I hope you're in my cell."

Billy mimed spitting on the floor. Exley rolled his eyes--God save us from this heathen. "Moving along. Were you aware that Patchett employed a plastic surgeon to surgically alter his prostitutes to resemble movie stars?"

Timmy said, "Yes," Billy said, "Yes." Exley smiled like that was everyday stuff. "Were you also aware that those prostitutes, both male and female, engaged in other criminal pursuits at Patchett's direction?"

Build them up to "extortion," the Patchett/Hudgens partnership. Exley told him the story: Lorraine/Rita said "This Guy" made Patchett squeeze his "clients," right when Pierce was set to go partners with Hudgens--_right after the Nite Owl killings_. A brainstorm coming--maybe a connector back to Dudley. "Answer the captain, shitbirds."

Billy said, "Ed, make him stop. Really, this has gone far enough."

Bud laughed. "_Ed?_ Oops, I forgot, boss. Your daddy's pals with his daddy."

Exley riled for real--flushed, trembling. "White, shut your mouth."

The fruits loved it--smiles, titters. Exley said, "Gentlemen, please answer the question."

Timmy shrugged. "Be specific. What other 'criminal pursuits'?"

"Specifically blackmail."

Two legs brushing twitched apart--Bud caught it plain. Exley touched his necktie--GO FULL.

Brainstorm: Johnny Stomp as "This Guy." Johnny Stomp an old shake artist, no visible means of support. Crim 101-- Lorraine Malvasi said the squeezes went down May '53-- Dudley's gang had already teamed up with Patchett. "Yeah, _blackmail_. Married johns and pervs and queers are prone to it. It's like an occupational hazard. Ever get squeezed by one of your playmates?"

Now Billy rolled his eyes. "We don't frequent prostitutes. Male or female."

Bud pulled his chair closer. "Well, your sweetie pie here was a known associate of a known fruit hustler named Bobby Inge. If it quacks like a duck, it's a duck. So quack, quack, and kick loose with who put the arm on you."

Exley, stern. "Gentlemen, do you know the names of any specific Patchett prostitutes?"

Billy came on butch. "He's a storm trooper, and we don't have to answer his questions."

"The fuck. You crawl around in sewers, you gotta meet some rats. Ever hear of a cute little twist named Daryl Bergeron? Ever get a yen for a woman and go for his mother? Daryl did-- Trashcan Jack Vincennes has got a smut book with pictures of them fucking on roller skates. You're floating in a sewer on a Popsicle stick you fucking queer bastards, so--"

Valburn: "Ed, make him stop!"

Exley: "Sergeant, enough!"

Bud, dizzy, like a man inside his head was feeding him lines. "The hell you say. These geeks are all over Patchett's schemes. One of them's a TV star, one of them's got a famous daddy. Two faggots with plenty of money just fucking ripe to be squeezed. That don't play smart to you?"

Exley--KEEP STILL--a finger to his collar. "Sergeant White has a point, although I apologize for his way of expressing it. Gentlemen, just for the record. Have either of you any knowledge of extortion schemes involving Pierce Patchett and/or his prostitutes?"

Timmy Valburn said, "No."

Billy Dieterling said, "No."

Bud got ready to whisper.

Exley leaned forward. "Have either of you ever been threatened with blackmail?"

Two more nos--two queers sweating up a nice cool room. Bud whispered, "Johnny Stompanato."

The fags froze. Bud said, "_Badge of Honor_ dirt. Is that what he wanted?"

Valburn started to speak--Billy shushed him. Exley: SLOW. The dizzy head man said NO. "Did he have dirt on your father? The great fucking Raymond Dieterling?"

Exley shot the cut-off sign. The dizzy man showed his face: Dick Stens sucking gas. "_Dirt_. Wee Willie Wennerholm, Loren Atherton and the kiddie murders. _Your father_."

Billy trembled, pointed to Exley. "_His_ father!"

Four-way stares-cut off by Valburn sobbing. Billy helped him up, embraced him. Exley said, "Get out. Now. You're free to go."

He looked sad more than mad or scared.

Billy walked Timmy out. Bud walked to the window. Exley walked over, talked to a hand mike. "Duane, Valburn and Dieterling are on their way. You and Don tail them."

Bud scoped him--a little taller, half his bulk. Something made him say, "I shouldn't have done that."

Exley looked out the window. "It'll be over soon. All of it." Bud looked down. Fisk and Kleckner stood by the door; the queers hit the sidewalk running. The l.A. men chased--a bus held them back. The bus zoomed by--no Billy and Timmy. Fisk and Kleckner stood in the street looking stupid.

Exley started laughing.

Something made Bud laugh.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

They rehashed old times; Stanton drank room service bubbly. Jack laid out his pitch: Patchett/ Hudgens, smut, heroin, the Nite Owl. He could tell Miller knew something; he could tell he wanted to spill it.

Old touches: how he taught Miller to play a cop; how he took Miller down to Central Avenue to get laid and wound up rousting Art Pepper. Gallaudet poked his head in, said Max Pelts was clean--Max stories ate up another hour. Miller got misty-- '58 would be the show's last season. Too bad they lost touch with each other, but the Big V was acting too crazy, a pariah in the Industry. White and Exley arguing next door--Jack cut to it.

"Miller, is there something you're dying to tell me?"

"I don't know, Jack. It's old rebop."

"This mess _goes_ back. You know Patchett, don't you?"

"How'd you know that?"

"Educated guess. And the captain's file said Patchett bankrolled some old Dieterling films."

Stanton checked his glass--empty. "Okay, I know Patchett from way back. It's some story, but I don't see how it applies to what you're interested in."

Jack heard the side door scrape carpet. "All I know is that you've been dying to tell me ever since I said the word 'Patchett."'

"Damn, I don't feel like a cop around you. I feel like a fat actor about to lose his series."

Jack looked away-cut the man slack. Stanton said, "You know I was the chubby kid in Dieterling's serials way back when. Willie Wennerholm, Wee Willie, he was the big star. I used to see Patchett at the studio school, and I knew he was some kind of Dieterling business partner, because our tutor had a crush on him and told all the kids who he was."

"And?"

"And Wee Wiffie was kidnapped from the school and chopped up by Dr. Frankenstein. You know the case, it was famous. The police picked up this guy Loren Atherton. They said he killed Willie and all these other children. Jack, this is the hard part."

"So tell it fast."

Very fast. "Mr. Dieterling and Patchett came to me. They gave me tranquilizers and told me I had to come along with this older boy and visit a police station. I was fourteen, the older boy was maybe seventeen. Patchett and Mr. Dieterling coached me, and we went to the station. We talked to Preston Exley, he was a detective back then. We told him just what Patchett and Mr. Dieterling told us to-that we'd seen Atherton prowling around the studio school. We identified Atherton and Exley believed us."

An actor's pause. Jack said, "Goddammit, _and?_"

Slower. "I never saw the older boy again, and I can't even remember his name. Atherton was convicted and executed, and I wasn't asked to testify at his trial. It got to be '39, right in there. I was still in the Dieterling stable, but I was a boy ingenue. Mr. Dieterling had this little studio contingent go out to the opening of the Arroyo Seco Freeway, just a publicity appearance. Preston Exley, he was a big-shot contractor now, and he cut the ribbon. I heard Mr. Dieterling, Patchett and Terry Lux, you know him, talking."

Pins and needles. "Miller, come on."

"I'll never forget what they said, Jack. Patchett told Lux, 'I've got the chemicals to keep him from hurting anybody and you plasticked him.' Lux said, 'And I'll get him a keeper.' Mr. Dieterling, I'll never forget the way his voice sounded. He said, 'And I gave Preston Exley a scapegoat he believes in beyond Loren Atherton. And I think the man owes me too much now to hurt me."'

Jack touched himself--he thought he'd stopped breathing. Breathing behind him--strained. Eyes on Exley and White in the doorway--up close to each other frozen.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

Now all his lines crossed in ink.

Red ink mutilations. An inkwell spilling blood. Cartoon characters on a marquee with Raymond Dieterling, Preston Exley, an all-star criminal cast. Ink colors: red, green for bribe money. Black for mourning--the dead supporting players. White and Vincennes knew, they'd probably tell Gallaudet--he kicked them out of the hotel knowing it. He could warn his father or not warn his father and the end would be the same. He could keep going or sit in this room and watch his life explode on television.

Long hours down--he couldn't reach for the phone. He turned on the TV, saw his father at a freeway ceremony, stuck his gun in his mouth while the man mouthed platitudes. The trigger half back--fade to a commercial. He emptied four rounds, spun the cylinder, put the barrel to his head. He squeezed the trigger twice, empty chambers, he couldn't believe what he'd done. He threw his piece out the window--a wino grabbed it off the sidewalk, shot up the sky. He laughed, sobbed, punched himself out on the furniture.

More hours down doing nothing.

The phone rang--Ed flailed for it blind. "Uh . . . yes?"

"Captain, you there? It's Vincennes."

"I'm here. What is it?"

"I'm at the Bureau with White. We just caught a squeal and grabbed it. 2206 North New Hampshire, Billy Dieterling's house. Billy and an unknown male dead. Fisk rolled on it already. Cap, _are you there?_"

No no no--yes. "I'm going . . . I'll be there."

"Will do. And by the way, White and I didn't tell Gallaudet what Stanton said. Thought you should know that."

"Thank you, Sergeant."

"Thank White. He's the one you had to worry about."

o o o

Fisk met him there--a mock Tudor lit by headlights--blackand-whites, crime lab cars on the lawn.

Ed ran up; Fisk spoke shorthand. "Neighbor woman heard screams, waited half an hour and called. She saw a man run out, get into Billy Dieterling's car and take off. He hit a tree down the block, got out and ran. I took a statement. White, male, early forties, average build. Sir, brace yourself."

Flashbulb pops inside. Ed said, "_Seal it here_. No Homicide, no station cops. No press, and I don't want Dieterling's father to find out. Have Kleckner seal the car and go get me Timmy Valburn. _Find him. Now_."

"Sir, they blew our tail. I feel bad about this, like it's our fault."

"It doesn't matter, just do what I told you."

Fisk ran to his car; Ed walked in, looked.

Billy Dieterling on a white couch soaked red. A knife in his throat; two knives in his stomach. His scalp on the floor, stuck to the carpet with an icepick. A few feet away: a fortyish white man--disemboweled, eviscerated, knives in his cheeks, two kitchen forks in his eyes. Drug capsules soaking in floor blood.

No artful desecrations--his man was past it now.

Ed walked into the kitchen. Patchett to Lux '39: "I've got the chemicals to keep him from hurting anybody, and you plasticked him." Cupboards dumped; forks and spoons on the floor. Ray Dieterling '39: "A scapegoat he believes in." Bloody footprints in and out--his man made trips for more adornment. Lux: "I'll get him a keeper." A scalp section in the sink. "Preston Exley, he was a big-shot contractor now." A bloody handprint on the wall, a psycho passion job for Crim 101's all-time list.

Ed squinted at the print--ridges and whirls showed plainly. Psycho oblivion: his man pressed his hand there to leave an imprimatur.

Back to the living room. Trashcan Jack in the middle of a half dozen lab techs. Bad flashbulb glare, no Bud White.

Trash said, "The other man's Jerry Marsalas. He's a male nurse, and he's sort of the keeper of this guy on the _Badge of Honor_ crew. David Mertens, the set designer. Very quiet, he's got epilepsy or something like that."

"Plastic surgery scars?"

"Graft scars all over his neck and back. I saw him with his shirt off once."

Techs swarming now--Ed led Vincennes out to the porch. Cool air, bright bright headlights. Trash said, "Mertens is the right age to be that older kid Stanton was talking about. Lux cut him, so Miller wouldn't have recognized him on the set. All the grafts on his back, he could have been cut lots of times. Jesus, the look on your face. You're taking it all the way?"

"I don't know. I want one more day to see what we can get on Dudley."

"And see if White tries to shank you. He could have told Gallaudet the whole story, but he didn't."

"White's as crazy as anybody in this thing."

Trash laughed. "Yeah, like you. Boss, if you and Gallaudet want this mess to go to due process, you'd better lock that boy up. He's out to kill Dudley and Deuce, and believe me he'll do it."

Ed laughed. "I told him he could."

"You'd _let him_ do--"

Cut him off. "Jack, do this. Stake Mertens' place and see if you can find White, then--"

"He's chasing down Perkins, how do I--"

"Just try to find him. And with or without him, meet me at Mickey Cohen's house tomorrow at nine. We're going to brace him on Dudley."

Vincennes looked around. "I don't see anybody from Homicide here."

"You and Fisk caught it, so Homicide doesn't know. I can keep it I.A.-sealed for twenty-four hours or so. It's ours until the press gets it."

"No APB on Mertens?"

"I'll call out half of l.A. He's a drooling psychotic. We'll get him."

"Suppose I find him. You don't want him talking old times, not with your father part of it."

"Take him alive. I want to talk to him."

Vincennes said, "For crazy, White's got nothing on you."

o o o

Ed sealed it.

He called Chief Parker, told him he had an I.A.-related double homicide and was keeping the victims' identities secret. He woke up five I.A. men, filled them in on David Mertens, sent them out to search for him. He made the neighbor lady who called in the squeal take a sedative, go to bed, promise she wouldn't spill the name "Billy Dieterling" to the press. The press arrived--he mollified them with John Doe IDs, sent them packing. He walked to the end of the block and examined the car--Kleckner watchdogging it--a Packard Caribbean with the front wheels up on the curb, the fender nosed into a tree. The driver's seat, dash and shift lever--bloody; perfect bloody handprints on the outside of the windshield. Kleckner stripped the license plates; Ed told him to drive the car home, stash it, team up with the searchers. Courtesy calls from a pay phone: the watch commander at Rampart Station, the duty M.E. at the City Morgue. A lie: Parker wanted a twenty-four-hour blanket on the killings-- no statements to the press, no autopsy reports circulated. 3:40 A.M., no Homicide brass at the scene--Parker carte-blanched him.

Sealed.

Ed walked back to the house. Quiet--no newsmen, no rubberneckers. Tape outlines--no bodies. Techs dusting, bagging evidence. Fisk in the kitchen doorway--looking nervous. "Sir, I've got Valburn. Inez Soto's with him. I went down to Laguna on a hunch. You told me Miss Soto knew him."

"What did Valburn tell you?"

"Nothing. He said he'd only talk to you. I broke it to him, and he cried himself out on the ride up. He said he's ready to make a statement."

Inez walked out. Grief all over her, her nails chewed bloody. "I blame you for this. I blame you for pushing Billy to it."

"I don't know what you mean, but I'm sorry."

"You had me spy on Raymond. Now you did this."

Ed stepped toward her. She slapped him, hit him. "Leave us all alone!"

Fisk grabbed her, eased her outside. Gentle--soft hands, a low voice. Ed walked down the hall looking in rooms.

Valburn in the den, taking pictures off the wall. Bright eyes glazed over, a too-bright voice. "If I keep doing things I'll be fine."

A group shot came down. "I need a full statement."

"Oh, you'll get one."

"Mertens killed Hudgens, Billy and Marsalas, plus Wee Willie and those other children. I need the why. Timmy, look at me."

Timmy plucked a framed photo. "We were together since 1949. We had our little indiscretions, but we always stayed together and loved each other. Don't give me a speech about getting his killer, Ed. I just couldn't bear it. I'll tell you what you want to know, but try not to be déclassé."

"Timmy--"

Valburn threw the frame at the wall. "David Mertens, goddamn you!"

Glass shattered. The picture landed face up: Raymond Dieterling holding an inkwell. "Start with the pornography. Jack Vincennes talked to you about it five years ago, and he thought you were holding back."

"Is this another third degree?"

"Don't make it one."

Timmy squared a stack of frames. "Jerry Marsalas made David create that strange . . . filth. Jerry was a very bad man. He'd been David's companion for years, and he regulated the drugs that kept him . . . relatively normal. Sometimes he'd escalate and de-escalate his dosages and get David to do commercial art piecework, just so he could keep the money. Raymond paid Jerry to look after David. He got David the job at _Badge of Honor_ so that Billy could look after him, too--Billy ran the camera crew since the show first went on."

Ed said, "Don't get ahead of yourself. Where did Marsalas and Mertens find the posers?"

Timmy hugged his pictures. "Fleur-de-Lis. Marsalas had used the service for years. He'd buy call girls when he was flush, and he knew lots of Pierce's old string of girls and lots of . . . sexually adventurous people that the girls told him about. He found out that a lot of Fleur-de-Lis customers had a bent for specialty smut, and he talked some of Pierce's old girls into letting him voyeur their sex parties. Jerry took pictures, David took pictures, and Jerry escalated David's drug intake and made him do pasteup work. The ink blood was all David's idea. Jerry hired some studio art director to make finished books out of the pictures and took them to Pierce. Do you follow? I don't know what _you_ know."

Ed got out his notebook. "Miller Stanton told us some background things. Patchett and Dieterling were partners at the time of the Atherton killings, and you know I make Mertens for them. Just keep going. If I need something clarified, I'll tell you."

Timmy said, "All right then. If you don't know it, the ink pictures were similar to the woundings on the Atherton victims. Pierce didn't know it when he saw the books, I guess only policemen saw the evidence photos. He also didn't know that David Mertens was the Wennerholm killer's new identity, so when Marsalas hatched this plan to sell the books and went to Pierce for financing, he just thought it was dirty books that compromised his prostitutes and their customers. He turned Marsalas down on his offer, but he did buy some of the books to sell through Fleur-de-Lis. Then Marsalas went to this man Duke Cathcart, and he went to these people the Englekling brothers. Ed, your Mr. Fisk hinted that all this has to do with the Nite Owl case, but I don't--"

"I'll tell you later. You're talking about early '53, and I'm following you so far. Just keep telling it in order."

Timmy laid his pictures down. "Then Patchett went to Sid Hudgens. He and Hudgens were going to be partners in some extortion thing that I don't know anything about, and Pierce told Hudgens about Marsalas and his smut. He'd had Marsalas checked out, and he knew he was a regular on the _Badge of Honor_ set, which interested Hudgens, because he had always wanted to do an exposé on the show for _Hush-Hush_. Pierce gave Hudgens a few of the books he'd held back from Fleur-de-Lis, and Hudgens approached Marsalas. He demanded information on the show's stars and threatened Jerry with exposure of his smut dealings if he didn't cooperate. Jerry gave him some tame stuff on Max Pelts, and a little while later it appeared in print. Then Hudgens was murdered, and of course it was Jerry who put David up to it. He lowered his drug dosage and drove him insane. David reverted to his old . . . to the way he killed the children. Marsalas did it because he was afraid Hudgens would keep trying to extort him. He went with David, and he stole Hudgens' _Badge of Honor_ files from his house, including an incomplete file Hudgens had on him and David. I don't think he knew that Pierce already had carbons of the files he and Hudgens were going to use for their blackmail thing, or that Pierce knew the bank where Hudgens kept his original files stashed."

Three key questions coming up; more corroboration first. "Timmy, when Vincennes questioned you five years ago, you acted suspiciously. Did you know back then that Mertens made the smut?"

"Yes, but I didn't know who David _was_. All I knew was that Billy kept an eye on him, so I kept quiet to Jack."

Question number one. "How do you know all this? Everything you've told me."

Timmy's eyes glazed fresh. "I found out tonight. After the hotel, Billy wanted that awful policeman's hints about Johnny Stompanato explained. Billy's known most of the story for years, but he wanted to know the rest. We went to Raymond's house in Laguna. Raymond knew about the more recent things from Pierce, and he told Billy the whole story. I just listened."

"And Inez was there."

"Yes, she heard it all. She blames you, sweetie. Pandora's box and all that."

She knew, his father probably knew. Full disclosure as good as public. "So Patchett supplied the dope that's kept Mertens docile all these years."

"Yes, he's quite physiologically ill. He gets brain inflammations periodically, and that's when he's most dangerous."

"And Dieterling got him the job with _Badge of Honor_ so Billy could look after him."

"Yes. After the Hudgens killing Raymond read about the mutilations and thought they sounded like the ones from the old child murders. He contacted Patchett, who he knew was friendly with Hudgens. Raymond revealed David's identity to Pierce, and Pierce became terrified. Raymond was afraid to take David away from Jerry, and he's been paying Jerry extraordinary money to keep David drugged up."

Key question two. "You've been waiting for this one, Timmy. Why has Ray Dieterling gone to all this trouble for David?"

Timmy turned a picture around--Billy, a lump-faced man. "David is Raymond's illegitimate son. He's Billy's half brother, and look at him. Terry Lux has cut him so often that he's so ugly next to my sweet Billy that you almost can't look."

Moving on grief--Ed cut in before he snapped. "What happened tonight?"

"Tonight Raymond filled Billy in on everything going back to Sid Hudgens--he didn't know any of it. Billy made me stay with Inez at Laguna. He told me he was going to snatch David from Jerry's house and wean him off the drugs. He must have tried it, and Marsalas must have retaliated. I saw those pills on the floor . . . and oh God David must have just gone insane. He couldn't understand who was good and who was bad and just..."

Three. "At the hotel you reacted to Johnny Stompanato. Why?"

"Stompanato's been blackmailing Pierce's customers for years. He caught me with another man and got part of the Mertens story out of me. Not much, just that Raymond paid for David's upkeep. It . . . it was before I knew very much. Stompanato's been preparing a dossier to bleed Raymond dry. He's been threatening Billy with notes, but I don't think he knows who David is. Billy was trying to convince his father to have him killed."

Sun broke through a window--it caught Timmy when his tears broke through. He held Billy's picture, a hand over David's face.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

An I.A. goon relieved him at 7:00--pissed that he was sleeping, slumped in the doorway with his gun out. The house stayed virgin--no blood-crazed David Mertens showed up. The l.A. guy said Mertens was still at large; Captain Exley's orders: meet him and Bud White at Mickey Cohen's place at 9:00. Jack rolled to a pay phone, played a hunch. A call to the Bureau--Dudley Smith on "emergency family leave." Breuning and Carlisle working "out of state"--the squad lieutenant at 77th the temporary Nite Owl boss. A buzz to the Main Woman's Jail: Deputy Dot Rothstein on "emergency family leave." The hunch: they had nothing but theories, Dudley's loose ends were getting snipped.

Jack drove home, shaking off a dream: Davey Goldman's wet-brain ramblings. Make the "Dutchman" Dean Van Gelder, the "Irish Cheshire" Dudley. "Franchise boys got theirs three triggers blip blip blip"--call that the shooters--Stompanato, Vachss, Teitlebaum--taking out hoods. "Bump bump bump bump bump bump bump cute train"--??????? Crazy--maybe Patchett's dope was still working some voodoo.

Karen's car was gone. Jack walked in, saw a layout on the coffee table: airplane tickets, a note.

J.--

Hawaii, and note the date. May 15, the day you become an official pensioner. Ten days and nights to get reacquainted. Dinner tonight. I made reservations at Perino's, and if you're still working call me so I can cancel.

xxxxx K.

P.S. I know you're wondering, so I'll tell you. When you were at the hospital you talked in your sleep. Jack, I know the worst I can possibly know and I don't care. We never have to discuss it. Capt. Exley heard you and I don't think he cares either. (He's not as bad as you said he was.)

Many X's

K.

Jack tried to cry--no go. He shaved, showered, put on slacks and his best sports jacket--over a Hawaiian shirt. He drove to Brentwood thinking everything around him looked new.

o o o

Exley on the sidewalk, holding a tape recorder. Bud White on the porch--l.A. must have found him. Jack made it a threesome.

White walked over. Exley said, "I just spoke to Gallaudet. He said without hard evidence we can't go to Loew. Mertens and Perkins are still out there, and Stompanato's in Mexico with Lana Turner. If Mickey doesn't give us anything good, then I'm going directly to Parker. Full disclosure on Dudley."

From the doorway: "Are you coming in or aren't you? You want to give me grief, give me indoor grief."

Mickey Cohen in a robe and Jew beanie. "Last call to give grief! Are you coming?"

They walked up. Cohen closed the door, pointed to a small gold coffin. "My late canine heir, Mickey Cohen, Jr. Distract me from my real grief, you goyisher cop fucks. The service is today at Mount Sinai. I bribed the rabbi to give my beloved a human sendoff. The shmendriks at the mortuary think they're burying a midget. Talk to me."

Exley talked. "We came to tell you who's been killing your franchise people."

"What 'franchise people'? Continue in this vein and I shall have to stand on the Fifth Amendment. And what is that tape doohickey you're holding?"

"Johnny Stompanato, Lee Vachss and Abe Teitlebaum. They're part of a gang, and they got the heroin you lost at your meeting with Jack Dragna back in '50. They've been killing your franchise people, and they tried to have you and Davey Goldman killed at McNeil. They bombed your house and didn't get you, but sooner or later they will."

Cohen laughed outright. "Granted, those old pals have been vacant from my life and are not amenable to rejoining me. But they do not have the intelligence to fuck with the Mickster and succeed."

White: "Davey Goldman was working with them. They crossed him when they tried to clip you two at McNeil."

Mickey Cohen, livid. "No! Never in six thousand millenniums would Davey do that to me! Never! Sedition in the same league as Communism you are talking!"

Jack said, "We got proof. Davey had your cell bugged. That's how word on the Englekling brothers and who knows what else got out."

"Lies! Combine Davey with the others and you still do not have the voltage to fuck with me!"

Exley futzed with the recorder--tape spun. Whirr, whirr, "My God to be so nimble and so hung, like Heifetz on the fiddle with his shlong that dog is, and hung like--"

Cohen hit the roof. "No! No! No man on earth is capable of shtupping me like that!"

Exley pushed buttons. Start--"Lana, what a snatch she must have"--stop, start--a card game, a toilet flushing. Mickey kicked the coffin. "All right! I believe you!"

Jack: "Now you know why Davey wouldn't let you put him in a rest home."

Cohen wiped his face with his beanie. "Not even Hitler is capable of such things. Who could be so brainy and so ruthless?"

White said, "Dudley Smith."

"Oh, Jesus Christ. Him I could believe. No . . . tell me in full view of my late beloved you are joking."

"An LAPD captain? This is for real, Mick."

"No, this I don't believe. Give me proof, give me evidence."

Exley said, "Mickey, you give us some."

Cohen sat down on the coffin. "I think I know who tried to clip me and Davey in the pen. Coleman Stein, George Magdaleno and Sal Bonventre. They're en route to San Quentin, a pickup chain from other jails. When they land, you could talk to them, ask them who put out the bid on me and Davey. I was going to clip them, but I couldn't get a good rate, such gomfs these jailhouse killers are."

Exley packed up his tape kit. "Thanks. When the bus gets in, we'll be there."

Cohen moaned. White said, "Kieckner left me a memo. Kikey and Lee Vachss are supposed to be meeting at the deli this morning. I say we brace them."

Exley said, "Let's do it."

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

Abe's Noshery: the tables full, Kikey T. at the cash register. White pressed up to the window. "Lee Vachss at a table on the right." Ed put a hand on his holster--empty--his suicide play. Trashcan opened the door.

Chimes. Kikey glanced over, reached under the register. Ed saw Vachss make heat, make like he was smoothing his trousers. Metal flashing waist-high.

People ate, talked. Waitresses circulated. Trash walked toward the register; White eyeballed Vachss. Metal flashed: under the table coming up.

Ed pulled White to the floor.

Kikey and Vincennes drew down.

Crossfire--six shots--the window went out, Kikey hit a stack of canned goods. Screams, panic runs, blind shots--Vachss firing wild toward the door. An old man went down coughing blood; White stood up shooting, a moving target--Vachss weaving back toward the kitchen. A spare on White's waistband--Ed stumbled up, grabbed it.

Two triggers on Vachss. Ed fired--Vachss spun around grabbing his shoulder. White fired wide; Vachss tripped, crawled, stood up--his gun to a waitress' head.

White walked toward him. Vincennes circled left; Ed circled right. Vachss blew the woman's brains out point-blank.

White fired. Vincennes fired. Ed fired. No hits--the woman's body toOk their shots. Vachss inched backward. White ran up; Vachss wiped brains off his face. White emptied his gun--all head shots.

Screams, a stampede to the door, a man bucking glass shards out the window. Ed ran to the counter, bolted it.

Kikey on the floor, blood gouting from chest wounds. Ed got right up in his face. "Give me Dudley. Give me Dudley for the Nite Owl."

Sirens loud. Ed cupped an ear, bent down.

"Grand. Begorra, lad."

Down closer. "Who took out the Nite Owl?"

Blood gurgles. "Me. Lee. Johnny Stomp. Deuce drove."

"_Abe, give me Dudley_."

"Grand, lad."

Sirens brutal loud. Shouts, footsteps. "The Nite Owl. _Why?_"

Kikey coughed blood. "Dope. Picture books. Cathcart had go. Lunceford on posse what got dope and hung out Nite Owl. F.I.'s on Stomp so Deucey stole. Man said scare Patchett. Two birds one stone Duke and Mal. Mal wanted money 'cause he knew man on posse."

"Give me Dudley. Say Dudley Smith was your partner."

Vincennes squatted down. The restaurant boomed: millions of voices. Blood on the counter--Ed thought of David Mertens. A flash--the Dieterling studio school--a mile from Billy D.'s house. "Abe, he can't hurt you now."

Kikey started choking.

"Abe--"

"Can too hurt can too."

Fading--Trash slammed his chest. "You fuck, give us something!"

Kikey mumbled, pulled a gold star off his neck. "Mitzvah. Johnny wants jail guys out. Q train. Dot got guns."

Vincennes, looking crazed. "It's a train, not a bus. It's a crash-out. Davey G. knew about it, he was rambling. Exley, the cute train, the _Q train_. Cohen said the guys from the jail bid are on it."

Ed grabbed at it, caught it. "YOU CALL."

Trash ran out. Ed stood up, breathed chaos: cops, shattered glass, an ambulance backed through the window loading bodies. Bud White shouting orders, a little girl in a blood-spattered dress eating a doughnut.

Trash came back--more crazed. "The train left L.A. ten minutes ago. Thirty-two inmates in one car, and the phone on board's out. I called Kleckner and told him to find Dot Rothstein. This was a set-up, Captain. Kleckner never left White that memo-this had to be Dudley."

Ed shut his eyes.

"Exley--"

"All right, you and White go to the train. I'll call the Sheriff's and Highway Patrol and have them set up a diversion."

White walked over, winked at Ed. He said, "Thanks for the push," stepped on Kikey T.'s face until he quit breathing.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

A motorcycle escort met them, shot them out the Pomona Freeway. Half the stretch elevated: you could see the California Central tracks, a single train running north--a freight carrier, inmate cargo in the third car--barred windows, steel-reinforced doors. Surface streets outside Fontana-- up to hills abutting the tracks--and a small standing army.

Nine prowl cars, sixteen men with gas masks and riot pumps. Sharpshooters in the hills, two machinegunners, three guys with smoke grenades. At the edge of the curve: a big buck deer on the tracks.

A deputy handed them shotguns, gas masks. "Your pal Kleckner called the command post, said that Rothstein woman was DOA at her apartment. She either hanged herself or somebody hanged her. Either way, we gotta assume she got the guns on. There's four guards and six crewmen on board that train. We stand ready with smoke and call for the password--every prison chain's got one. We hear the okay, we call a warning and wait. No okay, we go in."

A train whistle blew. Somebody yelled, "Now!"

The sharpshooters ducked down. The gas men hugged the ground. The fire team ran behind a pine row--Bud found a tree up close. Jack took a spot beside him.

The train made the curve--brakes caught, sparks on the tracks. The engine car stopped--nose up to the obstruction.

Megaphone: "Sheriff's! Identify yourself with the password!" Silence--ten seconds' worth. Bud eyeballed the engine car window--blue demin flashed.

"Sheriff's! Identify yourself with the password!"

Silence--then a fake bird call.

The gas men hit the windows--grenades broke glass, slipped between the bars. Tommygunners charged car 3--full clips took down the door.

Smoke, screams.

Somebody yelled, "Now!"

Smoke out the door--men in khaki running through it. A sharpshooter picked one off; somebody yelled, "No, they're ours!"

Cops swarmed the car--masks on, shotguns up. Jack grabbed Bud. "They're not in that one!"

Bud ran, hit the car 4 platform. Open the door--a dead guard just inside, inmates running helter-skelter.

Bud fired, pumped, fired--three went down, one aimed a handgun. Bud pumped, fired, missed--a crate beside the man exploded. Jack jumped on the platform--the inmate squeezed a shot. Jack caught it in the face, spun, hit the tracks.

The shooter ran. Bud pumped, hit empty. He dropped his shotgun, pulled his .38-one, two, three, four, five, six shots-- hits in the back, he was killing a dead man. Noise outside the car-convicts on the tracks by Trashcan's body. Deputies behind them firing close--buckshot and blood, black/red air.

A smoke bomb exploded--Bud ran into #5 gagging. Gunfire: white guys in denim shooting colored guys in denim, guards in khaki shooting both of them. He jumped the train, ran for the trees.

Bodies on the tracks.

Convicts picked off sitting duck-style.

Bud hit the pines, hit his car, gunned it over the tracks dragging the axles. Into a gully, fishtailing down, tires sliding on gravel. A tall man standing by a car. Bud saw who he was, aimed straight for him.

The man ran. Bud sideswiped the car, skidded to a stop. He got out--groggy, bloody from a crack on the dash. Deuce Perkins walked up shooting.

Bud caught one in the leg, one in the side. Two misses, a hit in the shoulder. Another miss--Perkins dropped the gun, pulled a knife. Bud saw rings on his fmgers.

Deuce stabbed. Bud felt his chest rip, tried to make fists, couldn't. Deuce lowered his face, smirked--Bud kneed him in the balls and bit his nose off. Perkins shrieked; Bud bit into his arm, threw his weight down.

They tumbled. Perkins made animal noises. Bud thrashed his head, felt the arm rip out of its socket.

Deuce dropped the knife. Bud picked it up--blinded by rings that killed women. He dropped the knife, beat Perkins to death with his own two wounded hands.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

The Patchett estate in ruins-- two acres of soot, debris. Shingles on the lawn, a scorched palm tree in the pool. The house itself rubble-collapsed stucco, soaked ashes. Find a booby-trapped safe inside a six-trillionsquare-inch perimeter.

Ed kicked through the rubble. David Mertens hovered--he had to be _there_, it was just too right.

The floor collapsed into the foundation blocks--timber to be cleared away. Wood heaps, mounds of sodden fabric--no telltale metal glints. A ten-man/one-week job, a tech for the booby trap. Around to the yard.

A cement back porch--a slab with fried furniture. Solid cement--no cracks, no grooves, no obvious access to a safe hole. The pool house another rubble heap.

Wood three feet high--too much work if Mertens was there. Circuit the pool--burned chairs, a diving platform. A handgrenade pin floating in the water.

Ed kicked the floating palm tree. Porcelain chips in the fronds; a piece of shrapnel embedded in the trunk. Down prone, squinting: capsules in the water, black squares that looked like detonator caps. The shallow end steps exploded plaster--metal grids showing, more pills. Check the lawn--extra-scorched grass running from the pool to the house.

Access to the safe. Grenade and dynamite safeguards. Flames shooting to the terminus, defusing the booby trap-just maybe.

Ed jumped in the water, tore at the plaster--pills and bubbles broke to the surface. Two-handed rips--plaster, water, bubbles, a swinging metal door. Pill eruptions, folders under plastic, plastic over cash and white powder. Loads and loads and loads--then nothing but a deep black hole. Sopping-wet runs to his car--the sun beat down--he was almost dry when he got the stash loaded. One last trip in case HE was THERE: pills scooped from the deep end.

o o o

The car heater warmed him up. He drove to the Dieterling school, bolted the fence.

Quiet--Saturday--no classes. A typical playground--basketball hoops, softball diamonds. Moochie Mouse on everything-- backboards to base markers.

Ed walked to the south fence perimeter--the closest route from Billy Dieterling's house. Gristled skin on chain links-- handholds up and over. Dark dots on faded asphalt--blood, an easy trail.

Across the playground, down steps to a boiler room door. Blood on the knob, a light on inside. He took out Bud White's spare, walked in.

David Mertens shivering in a corner. A hot room--the man sweating up bloody clothes. He showed his teeth, twisted his mouth into a screech. Ed threw the pills at him.

He grabbed them, gagged them down. Ed aimed at his mouth, couldn't pull the trigger. Mertens stared at him. Something strange happened with time--it left them alone. Mertens fell asleep, his lips curled over his gums. Ed looked at his face, tried for some outrage. He still couldn't kill him.

Time came back: the wrong way. Trials, sanity hearings, Preston Exley reviled for letting this monster go free. Time hard on the trigger--he still couldn't do it.

Ed picked the man up, carried him out to his car.

o o o

Pacific Sanitarium--Malibu Canyon. Ed told the gate guard to send down Dr. Lux--Captain Exley wanted to pay back his favor.

The guard pointed him to a space. Ed parked, ripped off Mertens' shirt. Brutal--the man was one huge scar.

Lux headed over. Ed pulled out two bags of powder, two stacks of thousand-dollar bills. He placed them on the hood, rolled down the rear windows.

Lux walked up, checked the back seat. "I know that work. That's Douglas Dieterling."

"Just like that?"

Lux tapped the powder. "The late Pierce Patchett's? Let's not be outraged, Captain. The last I heard you were no Cub Scout. And what is it that you wish?"

"That man taken care of on a locked ward for the rest of his life."

"I find that acceptable. Is this compassion or the desire to spare our future governor's reputation?"

"I don't know."

"Not a typical Exley answer. Enjoy the grounds, Captain. I'll have my orderlies clean up here."

Ed walked to a terrace, looked at the ocean. Sun, waves-- maybe some sharks out feeding. A radio snapped on behind him. ". . . so for more on that thwarted prison train break. A Highway Patrol spokesman told reporters that the death toll now stands at twenty-eight inmates, seven guards and crew members. Four deputy sheriffs were injured and Sergeant John Vincennes, celebrated Los Angeles policeman and the former technical advisor to the _Badge of Honor_ TV show, was shot and killed. Sergeant Vincennes' partner, LAPD Sergeant Wendell White, is in critical condition at Fontana General Hospital. White pursued and killed the crash-out's pickup man, identified as Burt Arthur 'Deuce' Perkins, a nightclub entertainer with underworld connections. A team of doctors are now striving to save the valiant officer's life, although he is not expected to live. Captain George Rachlis of the California Highway Patrol calls this tragedy--"

The ocean blurred through his tears. White winked and said, "Thanks for the push." Ed turned around. The monster, the dope, the money-gone.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

The pool stash: twenty-one pounds of heroin, $871,400, carbons of Sid Hudgens' dirt files. Included: blackmail photos, records of Pierce Patchett's criminal enterprises. The name "Dudley Smith" did not appear--nor did the names of John Stompanato, Burt Arthur Perkins, Abe Teitlebaum, Lee Vachss, Dot Rothstein, Sergeant Mike Breuning, Officer Dick Carlisle. Coleman Stein, Sal Bonventre, George Magdaleno--killed in the crash-out. Davey Goldman reinterviewed at Camarillo State Hospital--he could not give a coherent statement. The Los Angeles County Coroner's Office ruled Dot Rothstein's death a suicide. David Mertens stayed in locked-ward custody at Pacific Sanitarium. Relatives of the three innocent citizens killed at Abe's Noshery brought suit against the LAPD for reckless endangerment. The crash-out received national news coverage, was labeled the "Blue Denim Massacre." Surviving inmates told Sheriff's detectives that squabbling among the armed prisoners resulted in guns changing hands-- soon every inmate on the train was free. Racial tensions flared up, aborting the crash-out before the authorities arrived.

Jack Vincennes was posthumously awarded the LAPD's Medal of Valor. No LAPD men were invited to the funeral--the widow refused an audience with Captain Ed Exley.

Bud White refused to die. He remained in intensive care at Fontana General Hospital. He survived massive shock, neurological trauma, the loss of over half the blood in his body. Lynn Bracken stayed with him. He could not speak, but responded to questions with nods. Chief Parker presented him with his Medal of Valor. White freed an arm from a traction sling, threw the medal in his face.

Ten days passed.

A warehouse in San Pedro burned to the ground--remnants of pornographic books were discovered. Detectives labeled the fire "professional arson," reported no leads. The building was owned by Pierce Patchett. Chester Yorkin and Lorraine Malvasi were reinterrogated. They offered no salient information, were released from custody.

Ed Exley burned the heroin, kept the files and the money. His final Nite Owl report omitted mention of Dudley Smith and the fact that David Mertens, now the object of an all-points bulletin for his murders of Sid Hudgens, Billy Dieterling and Jerry Marsalas, was also the 1934 slayer of Wee Willie Wennerholm and five other children. Preston Exley's name was not spoken in any context.

Chief Parker held a press conference. He announced that the Nite Owl case had been solved-correctly this time. The gunmen were Burt Arthur "Deuce" Perkins, Lee Vachss, Abraham "Kikey" Teitlebaum--their motive to kill Dean Van Gelder, an ex-convict masquerading as the incorrectly identified Delbert "Duke" Cathcart. The shootings were conceived as a terror tactic, an attempt to take over the vice kingdom of Pierce Morehouse Patchett, a recent murder victim himself. The State Attorney General's Office reviewed Captain Ed Exley's 114-page case summary and announced that it was satisfied. Ed Exley again received credit for breaking the Nite Owl murder case. He was promoted to inspector in a televised ceremony.

The next day Preston Exley announced that he would seek the Republican Party's gubernatorial nomination. He shot to the front of a hastily conducted poll.

Johnny Stompanato returned from Acapulco, moved into Lana Turner's house in Beverly Hills. He remained there, never venturing outside, the object of a constant surveillance supervised by Sergeants Duane Fisk and Don Kleckner. Chief Parker and Ed Exley referred to him as their Nite Owl "Addendum"-- the living perpetrator to feed the public now that they were temporarily moffified with dead killers. When Stompanato left Beverly Hills for Los Angeles City proper, he would be arrested. Parker wanted a clean front-page arrest just over the city line--he was wiffing to wait for it.

The Nite Owl case and the murders of Billy Dieterhng and Jerry Marsalas remamed news They were never speculatively connected. Timmy Valburn refused to comment. Raymond Dieterhng issued a press release expressmg grief over the loss of his son He closed down Dream a Dreamland for a one month period of mourning. He remained in seclusion at his house in Laguna Beach, attended to by his friend and aide Inez Soto.

Sergeant Mike Breuning and Officer Dick Carlisle remained on emergency leave.

Captain Dudley Smith remained front stage center throughout the post-reopening round of press conferences and LAPD/D.A.'s Office meetings. He served as toastmaster at Thad Green's surprise party honoring Inspector Ed Exley. He did not appear in any way flustered knowing that Johnny Stompanato remained at large, was under twenty-four-hour surveillance and thus immune to assassination. He did not seem to care that Stompanato would be arrested in the near future.

Preston Exley, Raymond Dieterling and Inez Soto did not contact Ed Exley to congratulate him on his promotion and reversal of bad press.

Ed knew they knew. He assumed Dudley knew. Vincennes dead, White fighting to live. Only he and Bob Gallaudet knew--and Gallaudet knew nothing pertaining to his father and the Atherton case.

Ed wanted to kill Dudley outright.

Gallaudet said, kill yourself instead, that's what you'd be doing.

They decided to wait it out, do it right.

Bud White made the wait unbearable.

He had tubes in his arms, splints on his fingers. His chest held three hundred stitches. Bullets had shattered bones, ripped arteries. He had a plate in his head. Lynn Bracken tended to him--she could not meet Ed's eyes. White could not talk--being able to talk in the future was doubtful. His eyes were eloquent: Dudley. Your father. What are you going to do about it? He kept trying to make the V-for-victory sign. Three visits, Ed finally got it: the Victory Motel, Mobster Squad HQ.

He went there. He found detailed notes on White's prostitutekilling investigation. The notes were a limited man reaching for the stars, puffing most of them down. Limits exceeded through a briffiantly persistent rage. Absolute justice--anonymous, no rank and glory. A single line on the Englekling brothers that told him their killer still walked free. Room 11 at the Victory Motel--Wendell "Bud" White seen for the first time.

Ed knew why he sent him there--and followed up.

A phone company check, one interview--all it took. Confirmation, an epigraph to build on it: Absolute Justice. The TV news said Ray Dieterling walked through Dream-a-Dreamland every day-casing his grief in a deserted fantasy kingdom. He'd give Bud White a full day of his justice.

o o o

Good Friday, 1958. The A.M. news showed Preston Exley entering St. James Episcopal Church. Ed drove to City Hall, walked up to Ellis Loew's office.

Still early--no receptionist. Loew at his desk, reading. Ed rapped on the door.

Loew glanced up. "Inspector Ed. Have a chair."

"I'll stand."

"Oh? Is this business?"

"Of sorts. Last month Bud White called you from San Francisco and told you Spade Cooley was a sex killer. You said you'd put a D.A.'s Bureau team on it, and you didn't. Cooley has donated in excess of fifteen thousand dollars to your slush fund. You called the Biltmore Hotel from your place in Newport and talked to a member of Cooley's band. You told him to warn Spade and the rest of the guys that a crazy cop was going to come around and cause trouble. White braced Deuce Perkins, the real killer. Perkins sent him after Spade, he probably thought he'd kill him and save him from the rap. Perkins was warned by you and went into hiding. He stayed out long enough to turn White into a vegetable."

Loew, calm. "You can't prove any of that. And since when are you so concerned about White?"

Ed laid a folder on his desk. "Sid Hudgens had a file on you. Contribution shakedowns, felony indictments you dismissed for money. He's got the McPherson tank job documented, and Pierce Patchett had a photograph of you sucking a male prostitute's dick. Resign from office or it all goes public."

Loew--sheet white. "I'll take you with me."

"Do it. I'd enjoy the ride."

o o o

He saw it from the freeway: Rocketland and Paul's World juxtaposed--a spaceship growing out of a mountain, a big empty parking lot. He took surface streets to the gate, showed the guard his shield. The man nodded, swung the fence open.

Two figures strolled the Grand Promenade. Ed parked, walked up to them. Dream-a-Dreamland stood hear-a-pin-drop silent.

Inez saw him--a pivot, a hand on Dieterling's arm. They whispered; Inez walked off.

Dieterling turned. "Inspector."

"Mr. Dieterling."

"It's Ray. And I'm tempted to say what took you so long."

"You knew I'd be coming?"

"Yes. Your father disagreed and went on with his plans, but I knew better. And I'm grateful for the chance to tell it here."

Paul's World across from them--fake snow near blinding. Dieterling said, "Your father, Pierce and I were dreamers. Pierce's dreams were twisted, mine were kind and good. Your father's dreams were ruthless--as I suspect yours are. You should know that before you judge me."

Ed leaned against a rail, settled in. Dieterling spoke to his mountain.

o o o

1920.

His first wife, Margaret, died in an automobile accident--she bore his son Paul. 1924--his second wife, Janice, gave birth to son Billy. While married to Margaret, he had an affair with a disturbed woman named Faye Borchard. She gave him son Douglas in 1917. He gave her money to keep the boy's existence secret--he was a rising young filmmaker, wished a life free of complications, was willing to pay for it. Only he and Faye knew the facts of Douglas' parentage. Douglas knew Ray Dieterling as a kindly friend.

Douglas grew up with his mother; Dieterling visited frequently, a two-family life: wife Margaret dead, sons Paul and Billy ensconced with himself and wife Janice--a sad woman who went on to divorce him.

Faye Borchard drank laudanum. She made Douglas watch pornographic cartoons that Raymond made for money, part of a Pierce Patchett scheme-cash to finance their legitimate dealings. The films were erotic, horrific--they featured flying monsters that raped and killed. The concept was Patchett's--he put his narcotic fantasies on paper, handed Ray Dieterling an inkwell. Douglas became obsessed with flight and its sexual possibilities.

Dieterling loved his son Douglas--despite his rages and fits of strange behavior. He despised his son Paul--who was petty, tyrannical, stupid. Douglas and Paul greatly resembled each other.

Ray Dieterling grew famous; Douglas Borchard grew wild. He lived with Faye, watched his father's cartoon nightmares-- birds plucking children out of schoolyards--Patchett fantasies painted on film. He grew into his teens stealing, torturing animals, hiding out in skid row strip shows. He met Loren Atherton on the row--that evil man found an accomplice.

Atherton's obsession was dismemberment; Douglas' obsession was flight. They shared an interest in photography, were sexually aroused by children. They spawned the idea of creating children to their own specifications.

They began killing and building hybrid children, photographing their works in progress. Douglas killed birds to provide wings for their creations. They needed a beautiful face; Douglas suggested Wee Willie Wennerholm's--it would be a kindly nod to kindly "Uncle Rat--whose early work he found so exciting. They snatched Wee Willie, butchered him.

The newspapers called the child killer "Dr. Frankenstein"--it was assumed there was only one assailant. Inspector Preston Exley commanded the police investigation. He learned of Loren Atherton, a paroled child molester. He arrested Atherton, discovered his storage garage abattoir, his collection of photographs. Atherton confessed to the crimes, said that they were his work solely, did not implicate Douglas and stated his desire to die as the King of Death. The press lauded Inspector Exley, echoed his appeal: citizens with information on Atherton were asked to come forth as witnesses.

Ray Dieterling visited Douglas. Alone in his room, he discovered a trunk full of slaughtered birds, a child's fingers packed in dry ice. He _knew_ immediately.

And felt responsible--his quick-buck obscenities had created a monster. He confronted Douglas, learned that he might have been seen at the school near the time Wee Willie was kidnapped.

Protective measures:

A psychiatrist bribed to silence diagnosed Douglas: a psychotic personality, his disorder compounded by chemical brain imbalances. Remedy: the proper drugs applied for life to keep him docile. Ray Dieterling was friends with Pierce Patchett--a chemist who dabbled in such drugs. Pierce for inner protection--Pierce's friend Terry Lux for the outer.

Lux cut Douglas a whole new face. Atherton's lawyer stalled the trial. Preston Exley kept looking for witnesses--a wellpublicized search. Ray Dieterling treaded panic--then formed a bold plan.

He fed drugs to Douglas and young Miller Stanton. He coached them to say they saw Loren Atherton, alone, kidnap Wee Willie Wennerholm--they were afraid to come forth until now-- afraid Dr. Frankenstein would get them. The boys told Preston Exley their story; he believed them; they identified the monster. Atherton did not recognize his surgically altered friend.

Two years passed. Loren Atherton was tried, convicted, executed. Terry Lux cut Douglas again--destroying his resemblance to the witness boy. Douglas lived in Pierce Patchett sedation, a room at a private hospital--guarded by male nurses. Ray Dieterling became even more successful. Then Preston Exley knocked on his door.

His news: a young girl, older now, had come forth. She had seen Dieterling's son Paul with Loren Atherton--at the school the day Wee Willie was kidnapped.

Dieterling knew it was really Douglas--his resemblance to Paul was that strong. He offered Exley a large amount of money to desist. Exley took the money--then attempted to return it. He said, "Justice. I want to arrest the boy."

Dieterling saw his empire ruined. He saw the petty and mindless Paul exonerated. He saw Douglas somehow captured-- destroyed for the grief his art had spawned. He insisted that Exley keep the money--Exley did not protest. He asked him if there was no other way.

Exley asked him if Paul was guilty.

Raymond Dieterling said, "Yes."

Preston Exley said, "Execution."

Raymond Dieterling agreed.

He took Paul camping in the Sierra Nevada. Preston Exley was waiting. They dosed the boy's food; Exley shot him in his sleep and buried him. The world thought Paul was lost in an avalanche--the world believed the lie. Dieterling thought he would hate the man. The price of justice on his face told him he was just another victim. They shared a bond now. Preston Exley gave up police work to build buildings with Dieterling seed money. When Thomas Exley was killed, Ray Dieterling was the first one he called. Together they built from the weight of their dead.

o o o

Dieterling ended it. "And all of this is my rather pathetic happy ending."

Mountains, rockets, rivers--they all seemed to smile. "My father never knew about Douglas? He really thought Paul was guilty?"

"Yes. Will you forgive me? In your father's name."

Ed took out a clasp. Gold oak-leafs--Preston Exley's inspector's insignia. A hand-me-down--Thomas got it first. "No. I'm going to submit a report to the county grand jury requesting that you be indicted for the murder of your son."

"A week to get my affairs in order? Where could I run to, someone as famous as I am."

Ed said, "Yes," walked to his car.

o o o

The freeway model gone--replaced by campaign posters. Art De Spain unpacking leaflets, no arm bandage--a textbook bullet scar. "Hello, Eddie."

"Where's Father?"

"He'll be back soon. And congratulations on inspector. I should have called you, but things have been hectic around here."

"Father hasn't called me either. You're all pretending everything's fine."

"Eddie . . ."

A bulge on Art's left hip-he still carried a piece. "I just spoke to Ray Dieterling."

"We didn't think you would."

"Give me your gun, Art."

De Spain handed it over butt first. Silencer threads, S&W .38s.

"Why?"

"Eddie . .

Ed dumped the shells. "Dieterling told me everything. And you were Father's exec back then."

The man looked proud. "You know my M.O., Sunny Jim. It was for Preston. I've always been his loyal adjutant."

"And you knew about Paul Dieterling."

De Spain took his gun back. "Yes, and I've known for years that he wasn't the real killer. I got a tip back in '48 or so. It placed the kid somewhere else at the time of the Wennerholm snatch. I didn't know if Ray gave Paul over legitimately or not, and I couldn't break Preston's heart by telling him he killed an innocent boy. I couldn't upset his friendship with Ray--it just would have hurt him too much. You know how the Atherton case has always driven me. I've always had to know who killed those kids."

"And you never found out."

De Spain shook his head. "No."

Ed said, "Get to the Englekling brothers."

Art picked up a poster: Preston backdropped by building grids. "I was visiting the Bureau. I know it was '53, right in there. I saw these pictures on the Ad Vice board. Nice-looking kids, like a stag-shot daisy chain. The design reminded me of the pictures Loren Atherton took, and I knew that just Preston and I and a few other officers had seen them. I tried to track down the pictures and didn't get anywhere. A while later I heard how the Englekling brothers gave that smut testimony for the Nite Owl investigation, but you didn't follow up on it. I figured they were a lead, but I couldn't fmd them. Late last year I got a tip that they were working at this printshop up near Frisco. I went up to talk to them. All I wanted was to find out who made that smut."

White's notes: God-awful torture. "Just to talk to them? I know what happened there."

Awful pride glaring. "They took it for a shakedown. It went bad. They had some old smut negatives, and I tried to get them to ID the people. They had some heroin and some antipsychotic drugs. They said they knew a sugar daddy who was going to push some horse blend that would set the world on fire, but they could do better. They laughed at me, called me 'pops.' I got this notion that they had to know who made that smut. I don't know . . . I know I went crazy. I think I thought they killed all those children. I think I thought they'd hurt Preston somehow. Eddie, they _laughed_ at me. I figured they were dope pushers, I figured next to Preston they were nothing. And this old man took them both out."

He'd fretted the poster to shreds. "You killed two men for nothing."

"Not for nothing. For Preston. And I beg you not to tell him."

"Just another victim"--maybe the victim that justice lets slide.

"Eddie, he can't know. And he can't know that Paul Dieterling was innocent. Eddie, please."

Ed pushed him aside, walked through the house. His mother's tapestries made him think of Lynn. His old room made him think of Bud and Jack. The house felt filthy--bad money bought and paid for. He walked downstairs, saw his father in the doorway.

"Edmund?"

"I'm arresting you for the murder of Paul Dieterling. I'll be by in a few days to take you in."

The man did not budge an inch. "Paul Dieterling was a psychopathic killer who richly deserved the punishment I gave him."

"He was innocent. And it's Murder One either way." Not one flicker of remorse. Unbudging, unyielding, unflinching, intractable rectitude. "Edmund, you're quite disturbed at this moment."

Ed walked past him. His goodbye: "Goddamn you for the bad things you made me."

o o o

Downtown to the Dining Car: a bright place full of nice people. Gallaudet at the bar, sipping a martini. "Bad news on Dudley. You don't want to hear this."

"It can't be any worse than some other things I've heard today."

"Yeah? Well, Dudley's scot-free. Lana Turner's daughter just knifed Johnny Stompanato. D.O. fucking A. Fisk was staked out across the street and saw the meat wagon and the Beverly Hills P.D. take Johnny away. No Dudley witness, no Dudley evidence. Grand, lad."

Ed grabbed the martini, killed it. "Fuck Dudley sideways. I've got a shitload of Patchett's money for a bankroll, and I'll burn down that Irish cocksucker if it's the last fucking thing I ever do. Lad."

Gallaudet laughed. "May I make an observation, Inspector?"

"Sure."

"You sound more like Bud White every day."

CALENDAR

APRIL 1958

EXTRACT: L.A. _Times_, April 12:

GRAND JURY REVIEWS NITE OWL

EVIDENCE; DECLARES CASE CLOSED

Almost five years to the day after the crime, the City and County of Los Angeles bid official farewell to the Southland's "Crime of the Century," the infamous Nite Owl murder case.

On April 16, 1953, three gunmen entered the Nite Owl Coffee Shop on Hollywood Boulevard and shotgunned three employees and three patrons to death. Robbery was the assumed motive, and suspicion soon fell on three Negro youths, who were arrested on suspicion of the crime. The three: Raymond Coates, Tyrone Jones and Leroy Fontaine, escaped from jail and were killed resisting arrest. The three allegedly confessed to District Attorney Ellis Loew prior to their escape, and the case was assumed to have been solved.

Four years and ten months later, a San Quentin inmate, Otis John Shortell, came forward with information that led many to believe that the three youths were innocent of the Nite Owl killings. Shortell said that he was in the presence of Coates, Jones and Fontaine while they were engaged in the gang rape of a young woman, at the exact time of the coffee shop slaughter. Shortell's testimony, verified by lie detector tests, created a public clamor to reopen the case.