'Do it.'
Fisk took the phone. Ray Pinker walked up, holding a chem sheet. 'Prestilphyozine, Captain. It's an extremely rare experimental antipsychotic drug used to tranquilize violent mental patients. Somebody professional slipped it to our lady friend, because only a pro would know this breed of phyozine would be likely to counteract penthothal. Skipper, you should sit down, you look like you're about to have a coronary.'
Chemistry whiz Patchett; the Englekling brothers' father: a themist who developed antipsychotic compounds. Bud White's whore across the glass--alone now, a tape recorder spinning.
Ed walked in. Lynn said, 'You again?'
'That's right.'
'Don't you have to charge me or release me?'
'Not for another sixty-eight hours.'
'Aren't you violating my constitutional rights?'
'Constitutional rights have been waived for this one.'
'_This one?_'
'Don't play dumb. This one is Pierce Patchett distributing pornography, including picture-book photographs that exactly match the mutilations on a murder victim, namely his late 'partner' Sid Hudgens. This one is one of the supposed Nite Owl victims tied in to a conspiracy to distribute that pornography and your friend Bud White withholding major evidence on who the real victim was. Now, White told you to cooperate and you came here under the influence of a drug to counteract penthothal. That's against you, but you can still save yourself _and White_ a lot of trouble by cooperating.'
'Bud can look after himself. And you look terrible. Your face is all red.'
Ed sat down, turned off the tape. 'You don't even feel the dosage, do you?'
'I feel like I've had four martinis, and four martinis just make me that much more lucid.'
'Patchett sent you in without a lawyer to buy time, I know it. He knows you were called in as part of the Nite Owl reopening, so he knows he's a material witness at least. Personally, I don't see him as a killer. I know a great deal about Patchett's various enterprises, and you can save him a great deal of trouble by cooperating with me.'
Lynn smiled. 'Bud said you were quite smart.'
'What else did he say?'
'That you were a weak, angry man competing with your father.'
Let it pass. 'Then let's concentrate on my smarts. Patchett is a chemist, and it may be reaching, but I'm betting he studied under Franz Englekling, a pharmacologist who developed drugs such as the antipsychotic compound Patchett put you under to beat the pentothal. Englekling had two sons, who were murdered in Northern California last month. Those two men came forward during the base Nite Owl investigation and mentioned a quote crazy sugar daddy-o unquote who had access to lots of quote high-class call girls unquote. Obviously Patchett, obviously tied to a would-be smut merchant named Duke Cathcart, one of the alleged Nite Owl victims. Obviously Patchett is all over this thing and in for some trouble he doesn't need and you can help circumvent.'
Lynn lit a cigarette. 'So you're very, very smart.'
'Yes, and I'm a very good detective with a five-year backlog of withheld evidence to work from. I know about your file-burning episode, I know about Patchett's proposed extortion plan with Hudgens. I've read the deposition Vincennes bargained you with and I know all about Patchett's various enterprises, including Fleur-de- Lis.'
'So you're assuming that Pierce has some very damaging information on Vincennes.'
'Yes, which the district attorney and I will quash in the interest of protecting the reputation of the Los Angeles Police Department.'
Fluster: Lynn dropped her cigarette, fumbled her lighter. Ed said, 'You and Patchett can't win. I've got twelve days to square this thing right, and if I can't do it I'm going to start looking for subsidiary indictments. There's at least a dozen I can hang on Patchett, and believe me if I don't make this case I'll do anything I can to make myself look good.'
Lynn stared at him. Ed stared back. 'Patchett made you, didn't he? You were a pom-pom girl from Bisbee, Arizona, and a whore. He taught you how to dress and talk and think, and I am very impressed with the results. But I've got twelve days to keep my life out of the toilet, and if I can't do it I'm going to take you and Patchett down.'
Lynn turned on the tape player. 'Pierce Patchett's whore for the record. I'm not afraid of you and I've never loved Bud White more. It makes me happy that he withheld evidence and got the better of you, and you're a fool for underestimating him. I used to be jealous of him sleeping with Inez Soto, but now I respect the poor girl's good sense in leaving a moral coward for a man.'
Ed pressed 'Erase,' 'Stop,' 'Start.' 'For the record, sixtyseven hours to go and my next interrogation won't be so cordial.'
Kleckner opened the door, passed him a folder. 'Captain, Vincennes brought the Lefferts woman in. They're checking out mugs, and he said you wanted these.'
Ed stepped outside. A thick folder--glossy-paper smut.
The top books: pretty kids, explicit action, colorful costumes. Some of the heads had been cropped and taped back on--per the deposition--Jack tried to ID the posers from mugshots and thought cropping would facilitate the effort. Ugly/arty stuff-- just like Trashcan said.
The bottom books--plain black covers--Trashcan's garbage can find. The first inked-in shots--embossed red streaming from disembodied limbs, posers linked orifice to orifice. The homicide match: a spread-eagled boy in sync to the Hudgens crime scene stills.
Past astonishing--and whoever posed the smut pics killed Hudgens.
Ed hit the last book, froze. A nude pretty boy, arms spread--ink/blood gouting off his torso. Familiar, too familiar, not from a Hudgens coroner's shot. He turned pages and caught a foldout: boys, girls, offset limbs touching, ink designs linking them.
AND HE KNEW.
He ran down the hall to Homicide, found their 1934 records, found 'Atherton, Loren, 187 P.C. (multiple).' Three thick folders, then the photos--shot by Dr. Frankenstein himself.
Children immediately after their dismemberment.
Their arms and legs arranged just off their torsos.
White waxed paper under the bodies.
Blood fingerpainted around their limbs, red on white, intricate designs identical to the pornographic ink shots, limb spreads identical to the Hudgens severings.
Ed mangled his fingers slamming the cabinet, Code 2'd to Hancock Park.
o o o
A party at Preston Exley's mansion: valets parking cars, music in the back--probably a rose garden bash. Ed went in the front door and stopped short--his mother's library was gone.
Replacing it: a long space eclipsed by a model--lengths of highway over papier-mache cities. Directional markers at the perimeters--the entire freeway system.
Perfection--it jerked him out of his filth-picture haze. Boats in San Pedro Harbor, the San Gabriel Mountains, tiny autos on asphalt. Preston Exley's greatest triumph on the eve of its completion.
Ed pushed a car--ocean to foothills. His father's voice: 'I thought you'd be working South Central today.'
Ed turned around. 'What?'
Preston smiled. 'I thought you'd be making up for your recent bad press.'
Non sequiturs--the Atherton photos came back. 'Father, excuse me, but I don't know what you're talking about.'
Preston laughed. 'We've seen each other so seldom lately that we've forgotten the amenities.'
'Father, there's something--'
'I'm sorry, I was referring to Dudley Smith's statement to the _Herald_ today. He said the reopening investigation was being centered on the southside, that you're looking for another Negro gang.'
'No, that's not the way it's going.'
