Bracken and the bank geek hauled boxes: a run to the Dodge and Lynn's Packard. The geek locked up the bank, hit the Ford and U-turned southbound; Hinton and Bracken formed a chain--separate cars heading north.
Seconds tick tick tick--Jack counted to ten, chased.
He caught them a mile out--weaving, creeping up, falling back-downtown Glendale, north into foothills. Traffic dwindled; Jack found a lookout spot: a clean view of the road winding upward. He parked, watched: the cars kept climbing, took a fork, disappeared.
He followed their route straight to a campsite--picnic tables, barbecue pits. Two cars behind a pine row; Bracken and Hinton carrying boxes--muscle boy dangling a gas can off one pinky.
Jack ditched his car, snuck up behind some scrub pines. Bracken and Hinton dumped: paper in a big charcoal pit. They turned their backs; Jack sprinted over, ducked down.
They came back, another load: Bracken with a lighter out, Hinton's arms full. Jack stood up, kicked, pistolwhipped--the balls, left/right/left to the face. Hinton went down dropping paper; Jack broke his arms--knees to the elbows, jerks at the wrists.
Hinton went white--shock coming on.
Bracken had hold of the gas can and a lighter.
Jack stood in front of the pit, his .38 cocked.
Standoff.
Lynn held the can, the cap loose, spilling fumes. Flick--a flame on the lighter. Jack drew down--right in her face.
Standoff.
Hinton tried to crawl. Jack's gun hand started shaking. 'Sid Hudgens, Patchett and Fleur-de-Lis. It's either me or Bud White, and I can be bought.'
Lynn killed the flame, lowered the gas. 'What about Lamar?'
Hinton: pawing at the dirt, spitting blood. Jack lowered his gun. 'He'll live. And he shot at me, so now we're quits.'
'He didn't shoot at you. Pierce . . . I just know he didn't.'
'Then who did?'
'I don't know. Really. And Pierce and I don't know who killed Hudgens. The first we heard of it was the newspapers yesterday.'
The pit--folders on charcoal. 'Hudgens' private dirt, right?'
'Yes.'
'Yes and keep going.'
'No, let's talk about your price. Lamar told Pierce about you, and Pierce figured out that you were that policeman who always seems to wind up in the scandal sheets. So as you say, you can be bought. Now, for how much?'
'What I want's in with those files.'
'And what do you--'
'I know about you and the other girls Patchett runs. I know all about Fleur-de-Lis and the shit Patchett pushes, including the smut.'
No fluster--the woman put out a stone face. 'Some of your stag books have pictures with animated ink. Red, like blood. I saw pictures of Hudgens' body. He was cut up to match those photos.'
The stone face held. 'So now you're going to ask me about Pierce and Hudgens.'
'Yeah, and who doctored up the photos in the books.' Lynn shook her head. 'I don't know who made those books, and neither does Pierce. He bought them bulk from a rich Mexican man.'
'I don't think I believe you.'
'I don't care. Do you want money besides?'
'No, and I'm betting whoever made those photographs killed Hudgens.'
'Maybe somebody who got excited by the pictures killed him. Do you care either way? Why am I betting Hudgens had dirt on you, and that's what's behind all this?'
'Smart lady. And I'm betting Patchett and Hudgens didn't play golf or--'
Lynn cut him off. 'Pierce and Sid were planning on working a deal together. I won't tell you any more than that.'
Extortion--it had to be. 'And those files were for that?'
'No comment. I haven't looked at the files, and let's keep this a stalemate and make sure nobody gets hurt.'
'Then tell me what happened at the bank.'
Lynn watched Hinton try to crawl. 'Pierce knew that Sid kept his private files in safe-deposit boxes at that B of A. After we read that he'd been killed, Pierce figured the police would locate the files. You see, Sid had files on Pierce's dealings--dealings legitimate policemen would disapprove of. Pierce bribed the manager into letting us have the files. And here we are.'
Jack smelled paper, charcoal. 'You and Bud White.'
Lynn made fists, pressed them to her legs. 'He has nothing to do with any of this.'
'Tell me anyway.'
'Why?'
'Because I don't make you two as the hot item of 1953.'
A smile from deep nowhere--Jack almost smiled back. Lynn said, 'We're going to strike a deal, aren't we? A truce?'
'Yeah, a non-aggression pact.'
'Then make this part of it. Bud approached Pierce, investigating the murder of a young girl named Kathy Janeway. He'd gotten Pierce's name and mine from a man who used to know her. Of course, we didn't kill her, and Pierce didn't want a policeman coming around. He told me to be nice to Bud . . . and now I'm starting to like him. And I don't want you to tell him anything about this. Please.'
She even begged with class. 'Deal, and you can tell Patchett the D.A. thinks the Hudgens case is a loser. It's heading for the back burner, and if I find what I want in that pile, today didn't happen.'
Lynn smiled--this time he smiled back. 'Go look after Hinton.'
She walked over to him. Jack dug into the folders, found name tabs, kept digging. A spate of T's, a run of V's, the kicker. 'Vincennes, John.'
Eyewitness accounts: squarejohns at the beach that night. Nice folks who saw him drill Mr. & Mrs. Harold J. Scoggins, nice folks who told Sid about it for cash, nice folks who didn't tell the 'authorities' for fear of 'getting involved.' The results of the blood test Sid bribed the examining doctor into suppressing: the Big V with a snootful of maryjane, Benzedrine, liquor. His own doped-up statement in the ambulance: confessions to a dozen shakedowns. Conclusive proof: Jack V. snuffed two innocent citizens outside the Malibu Rendezvous.
'I got Lamar back to my car. I'll drive him to a hospital.'
Jack turned around. 'This is too good to be true. Patchett's got carbons, right?'
That smile again. 'Yes, for his deal with Hudgens. Sid gave him carbons of every file except the files he kept on Pierce himself Pierce wanted the carbons as his insurance policy. I'm sure he didn't trust Sid, and since we have all of Hudgens' files right here, I'm sure Pierce's files are in there.'
'Yeah, and you have a carbon on mine.'
'Yes, Mr. Vincennes. We do.'
Jack tried to ape that smile. 'Everything I know about you, Patchett, his rackets and Sid Hudgens is going into a deposition, _multiple_ copies to _multiple_ safe-deposit boxes. If anything happens to me or mine, they go to the LAPD, the D.A.'s Office and the L.A. _Mirror._'
'Stalemate, then. Do you want to light the match?'
Jack bowed. Lynn doused the files, torched them. Paper sizzled, fireballed--Jack stared until his eyes stung.
'Go home and sleep, Sergeant. You look terrible.'
o o o
Not home--Karen's.
He drove there woozy, keyed up. He started to feel the close-out: bad debts settled bad, a clean slate. He
