Smith shook my hand firmly. 'I know it does, lad. I can tell we are going to be grand friends. God bless you. When you say your prayers, send one up for old Dudley.'
'I will.'
Smith laughed. 'No, you won't,' he said, 'you'll go out and find yourself some grand piece of tail and show her your badge and tell her you're the next chief of police. Ha-ha-ha! I know you, lad. Now go and leave me to placate old John.'
I walked back to my car feeling touched by madness and wonder. Mad, wonderful laughter trailed after me as I drove off,
Mad laughter filled my sleep that night. Nagging doubts tore at me in the form of Wacky Walker and Dudley Smith twirling nightsticks and shouting obscene poetry at each other. Reuben Ramos watched, honking on his sax and offering cryptic comments like a hophead Greek chorus. Captain Bill Beckworth was there too, offering his two cents' worth—'Caution, Freddy. Improve my putting stroke and I'll make you the king of Wilshire Division. All the pussy and wonder you can stomach! I'll bring back Walker from the dead and make him a nobel laureate. Trust me!'
I woke up with a headache and the certainty that Dudley Smith was going to screw me out of all the plaudits to be earned from the Eddie Engels case. He was the ranking officer, the decision maker, the one who would file with the district attorney's office when Engels was arrested. I needed an insurance policy, and I knew exactly who to call.
I took my time dressing and eating breakfast. I fried Night Train a pound of hamburger. He wolfed it down greedily and licked the inside of his dish. I threw him a soup bone as dessert. He gnawed it while I called Information and got the number of the office of the district attorney, city of Los Angeles. It was still early. I hoped someone would be there.
I dialed. 'District attorney's office,' a woman's singsong voice answered.
'Good morning,' I said, 'may I speak to Miss Lorna Weinberg, please?'
'Your name please, sir?'
'Officer Fred Underhill.'
'One moment, Officer. I'll ring.'
Lorna Weinberg came on the line a moment later, sounding harried. 'Hello,' she said.
'Hello, Miss Weinberg. Do you remember me?'
'Yes, I do. Is this something about my father?'
'No, it's not. It's both personal and professional. I need to speak to you, as soon as possible.'
'What is it?' Lorna snapped.
'I can't discuss it on the phone.'
'What is this, Mr. Underhill?'
'It's something important. Something I know that you'll think is important. Can I meet you tonight?'
'All right. Briefly. How about outside city hall, the Spring Street entrance, at five o'clock? I can give you fifteen minutes.'
'I'll be there.'
'Good day, Officer,' Lorna Weinberg said, hanging up before I could deliver the witty remark I had prepared.
It was a hot, smoggy day, and it didn't faze me in the least. I drove downtown feeling buoyant with anticipation, and parked in front of the Havana Hotel, an old, one-story red brick building with a rickety elevator in its small entrance foyer. It was 7:59 by my watch, so I leaped the stairs three at a time, knocking on the door of room 16 at exactly eight o'clock.
A stocky blond man in a short-sleeved white shirt and a shoulder holster opened it. I held out my badge to gain entrance and he nodded me inside. Dudley Smith and another man were in the middle of the dingy little room, hunched over a folding card table.
Smith looked over his shoulder and greeted me. 'Freddy! Laddy! Welcome! Let me make the introductions— gentlemen, this is Officer Fred Underhill, my newest protege. Fred, meet Sergeant Mike Breuning,' he nodded toward the stocky blond man. 'And Officer Dick Carlisle,' he nodded toward the other man, a tall, thin, sallowfaced man with wire-rimmed glasses. I shook hands with my new colleagues and exchanged pleasantries with them until Dudley Smith cleared his throat loudly and called for our attention.
'Enough horseshit,' he said. 'Freddy, tell Mike and Dick your story. Omit nothing. Here, stand up in back of this table like a good toastmaster. Ahhh, yes, that's grand.'
Breuning and Carlisle pulled up chairs while I assumed my position behind the folding table. Smith sat on the bed, smoking and sipping coffee and smiling at me. It took me fifteen minutes to recount my tale. I could tell that Breuning and Carlisle were impressed. They looked to Dudley Smith for confirmation, almost doglike in their deference to the big cop.
He smiled at them. 'Ahhh, yes. A real live degenerate womankiller. Comments, lads? Questions?'
Carlisle and Breuning shook their heads.
'Freddy?' Smith asked.
'Only one, Dudley. When do we start?'
'Ha-ha-ha! Grand! We start now, lad. Now listen: here are your assignments. Mike, you will go immediately to Horn Drive. You will tail Eddie Engels. You will go with him all day and all night until he returns home to sleep. If he picks up any women, you will stay very close. Do you get my meaning, lad? This beast must claim no more victims. Freddy, you will go to Horn Drive, too. You will question people on that street about their degenerate neighbor. I want names and addresses for any eyewitnesses to violence or abuse on Engels's part. Take the whole day on this. Dick, you go to Wilshire Station and talk to Sergeant Joe DiCenzo. Talk to him about the Leona Jensen killing. Tell Joe that I'm working on this investigation on my own time—he'll understand. Read the reports on the caper—coroner, dicks' log sheets, property, everything. Take notes. I'll be doing the digging into Eddie-boy's background myself. We'll meet here tomorrow, same time. Now go to work and God be with you!' Dudley Smith clapped his big hands, thunderously indicating dismissal.
Breuning and Carlisle filed out the door, looking grimly determined. I was about to follow them when Dudley Smith grabbed my arm. 'You call me this afternoon at the bureau, lad. About four o'clock.'
'Sure, Dudley,' I said.
Smith squeezed my arm very hard, then gently shoved me out the door.
Breuning was standing on the sidewalk, apparently waiting for me. 'Since we're both going out to the Strip, I thought I could follow you,' he said.
'Sure,' I said. 'Where's your car?'
'Around the corner.' Breuning was doing a little nervous shuffle.
I could tell there was something he wanted to say. I tried to make it easy for him. 'How long have you been on the job, Mike?'
'Eleven years. You?'
'Four.'
'That must have been a tough nut, shooting those two Mexicans.'
'I don't think about it too much.'
'I was wondering. Dudley likes you, you know that?'
'I guess so. Why do you mention it?'
Breuning's stolid German face darkened. 'Because I noticed the way you were looking at him. Studying him like he was kind of a crazy man. A lot of people think Dudley's nuts, but he's not. He's nuts like a fox.'
'I believe you. He's just an actor, and a damn good one. He's good at firing people up. That's his gift.'
'Right. He wants this guy Engels, though. Bad.'
'I know. He told me. He hates woman-killers.'
'It's more than that. You have to know Dudley. I know him real well. Since I was a rookie. He's still pissed off about the Dahlia. He told me the Engels case is his penance for not catching the guy who sliced her.'
I gave that some thought. 'He wasn't in charge of the entire investigation, Mike. The whole L.A.P.D. and sheriffs department couldn't find the killer. It wasn't Dudley's fault.'
'I know, but he took it that way. He's a religious man, and he's taking the Engels thing real personal. The
