'Let it play out. Push on the Nite Owl, that's the one the public wants cleared. Hudgens was shit, the investigation'll be a shit show and we'll never get the killer. Let it play out.'
The door opened; Duane Fisk put two thumbs down. 'No luck, Mr. Loew. Alibis straight across, and they sound like good ones. The coroner estimated Hudgens' death at midnight to 1:00 A.M., and these people were all in plain view somewhere else. We'll go for corroboration, but I think it's a wipe.'
Loew nodded; Fisk walked out. Jack said, 'Let it go.'
Loew smiled. 'What's your alibi? Were you in bed with my sister-in-law?'
'I was in bed alone.'
'I'm not surprised--Karen said you've been moody and scarce lately. You look edgy, Jack. Are you afraid your arrangement with Hudgens will be publicized?'
'Millard wants a deposition, I'll give him one. You buy Sid and me as lodge brothers?'
'Of course. Along with Dudley Smith, myself and several other well-known choirboys. You're right on Hudgens, Jack. I'll broach it to Bill Parker.'
A yawn--the bennies were losing their kick. 'It's a dog of a case, and you don't want to prosecute it.'
'Yes, since the victim did facilitate _my_ election, and he might have left word that _you_ leaked word to him on Mr. McPherson's quote dark desires. Jack . . .'
'Yeah, I'll keep my nose down, and if your name turns up on paper I'll destroy it.'
'Good man. And if I . . .'
'Yeah, there is something. Track the reports on the investigation. Sid kept some secret dirt files, and if your name's anywhere, it's there. And if I get a lead on where, I'll be there with a match.'
Loew, pale. 'Done, and I'll talk to Parker this afternoon.'
Ray Pinker rapped on the mirror, pressed a graph to the glass: twin needle lines--no wild fluctuations. Out the speaker: 'Not guilty, but no give on his alibi. Was he _en flagrante?_'
Loew smiled. Russ Millard, speaker loud. 'Go to work, Vincennes. Nite Owl block canvassing, if you recall. Your cockamamie TV show hasn't panned out so far, and I want a written statement on your dealings with Hudgens. _By 0800 tomorrow_.'
Darktown beckoned.
o o o
South to 77th. Jack popped another roll and picked up his search map; the desk sergeant told him the spooks were getting feistier, some pinko agitators put a bug up their ass, more garbage attacks, the garage men were going out in threes: one detective, two partrolmen, teams on opposite sides of the street. Meet his guys at 116th and Wills--they'd been one man short since noon.
The bennies kicked in--Jack zoomed back up. He drove to 116 and Wills: a stretch of cinderblock shacks, windows stuffed with cardboard. Dirt alleys, a bicycle brigade: colored kids packing fruit. His guys up ahead: two partrolmen on the left, two blues and a plainclothes on the right. Armed: tin snips, rifles. Jack parked, made the left-side team a threesome.
Pure shitwork.
Knock on the door, get permission to search the garage. Three quarters of the locals played possum; back to the garage, open the door, cut the lock. The right-side team didn't ask--they went in snips first, dawdled, brandished their hardware at the bicycle kids. The left-side kids tried to look mean; one kid chucked a tomato over their heads. The blues fired over his head--taking out a pigeon coop, chewing up a palm tree. Dusty garage after dusty garage after dusty garage--no '49 Mere license DG1 14.
Twilight, a block of deserted houses--broken windows, weed jungle lawns. Jack started feeling punk: achy teeth, chest pings. He heard rebel yells across the street; the right-side team triggered shots. He looked at his partners--then they all tore ass over.
The Holy Grail in a rat-infested garage: a purple '49 Merc, jig rig to the hilt. California license DG114-- registcred to Raymond 'Sugar Ray' Coates.
Two patrolmen whipped out bottles.
A couple of bicycle kids jabbered: the bonaroo paint job, a white cat hanging around the alley.
The left-side guys broke into a rain dance.
Jack squinted through a side window. Three pump shotguns on the floor between the seats: big bore, probably 12-gauge.
Yells-deafening; back slaps--bonecrusher hard. The kids yelled along; a patrolman let them slug from his bottle. Jack took a big gulp, emptied his gun at a streetlight, got it with his last shot. Whoops, rebel yells; Jack let the kids play quick draw with his piece. Sid Hudgens buzzed him--he took a big drink, chased him away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
A private room at the Pacific Dining Car. Dudley Smith, Ellis Loew, Bud across the table. Blistered hands, three days of hose work: sex offenders blurred in his head.
Dudley said, 'Lad, we found the car and the shotguns an hour ago. No prints, but one of the firing pins perfectly matches the nicked shells we found at the Nite Owl. We took the victims' purses and wallets out of a sewer grate near the Tevere Hotel, which means that we have a damn near airtight case. But Mr. Loew and I want the whole hog. We want confessions.'
Bud shoved his plate away. It all came back to the spooks-- scotch his shot at Exley. 'So you'll put bright boy on the niggers again.'
Loew shook his head. 'No, Exley's too soft. I want you and Dudley to question them, inside the jail, tomorrow morning. Ray Coates has been in the infirmary with an car infection, but they're releasing him back into general population early tomorrow. I want you and Dud there bright and early, say 7:00.'
'What about Carlisle and Breuning?'
Dudley laughed. 'Lad, you're a much more frightful presence. This job has the name 'Wendell White' on it, as does another assignment I've kicked off lately. One you'll be interested in.'
Loew said, 'Officer, it's been Ed Exley's case so far, but now you can share the glory. And I'll grant you a favor in return.'
'Yeah?'
'Yes. Dick Stensland has been handed a six-count probation indictment. Do it, and I'll drop four of those charges and put him in front of a lenient judge. He'll be sentenced to no more than ninety days.'
Bud stood up. 'Deal, Mr. Loew. And thanks for dinner.'
Dudley beamed. 'Until 7:00 tomorrow, lad. And why are you leaving so abruptly, is it a hot date you have?'
'Yeah, Veronica Lake.'
o o o
She opened the door, all Veronica: spangly gown, blond curl over one eye. 'If you'd called first, I wouldn't look this ridiculous.'
She looked edgy. Her dye job was off: uneven, dark at the roots. 'Bad date?'
'An investment banker Pierce wants to curry favor with.'
'Did you fake it good?'
'He was so self-absorbed that I didn't have to fake it.' Bud laughed. 'You turn thirty, you do it strictly for thrills.' Lynn laughed, still edgy, she might touch him first just to have something to do with her hands. 'If men don't try to be Alan Ladd, they might get the real Lynn Margaret.'
'Worth the wait?'
'You know it is, and you're wondering if Pierce told me to be receptive.'
He couldn't think of a comeback.
Lynn took his arm. 'I'm glad you thought of that, and I like you. And if you wait in the bedroom I'll scrub off Veronica and that investment banker.'
o o o
She came to him naked, a brunette, her hair still wet. Bud forced himself to go slow, take time with his kisses, like she was a lonely woman he wanted to love to death. Lynn played off his timing: her kisses back, her touches. Bud kept thinking she was faking--he rushed to taste her so he'd know.
Lynn moaned, put his hands on her breasts, set up a rhythm for his fmgers. Bud followed her lead, loved it when she gasped and came over and over, hair-trigger. Real--so real he forgot about himself, he heard something
