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.'
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 got the idea just like he got the idea to shake down Claude Dineen. He didn't say the words, didn't rehearse it. He turned the radio on so he'd keep the notion fresh.
A stern-voiced announcer:
'… and the southside of Los Angeles is now the focus of the largest manhunt in California history. We repeat, an hour and a half ago, just after dawn, Raymond Coates, Tyrone Jones and Leroy Fontaine, the accused killers in the Nite Owl massacre case, escaped from the Hall of Justice Jail in downtown Los Angeles. The three had been moved to a minimum security cellblock to await requestioning and made their escape by the means of knotted-together bedsheets and a jump out a secondstory window. Here, recorded immediately after the escape, are the comments of Captain Russell Millard of the Los Angeles Police Department, co-supervisor of the Nite Owl investigation.
''I… assume full responsibility for this incident. I was the one who ordered the three suspects sequestered in a minimum security unit. I… every effort will be made to recapture them with all due speed. I..
Jack turned the radio off. Close-out: pious Russ Millard's career. Call-out: figure the whole Bureau yanked from bed for the dragnet. He yawned the rest of the way to Karen's, rang her bell seeing double.
Karen opened up. 'Sweetie, «where have you been?»'
Jack plucked curlers out of her hair. 'Will you marry me?'
Karen said, 'Yes.'
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Ed, staked out at 1st and Olive. His father's shotgun for backup, a replay on his hunch.
Sugar Ray Coates: 'Roland Navarette, lives on Bunker Hill. Runs a hole-up for parole absconders.'
A whispered snitch: the speakers didn't catch it, doubtful Coates remembered he said it. R &I, Navarette's mugshot, address: a rooming house midway down Olive, half a mile from the Hall of Justice Jail. A dawn breakout-they couldn't make Darktown unseen. Figure all four of them armed.
Scared-like Guadalcanal '43.
Outlaw-he didn't report the lead.
Ed drove to mid-block. A clapboard Victorian: four stories, peeling paint. He jumped the steps, checked out the mail slots: R. Navarette, 408.
Inside, his suitcoat around the shotgun. A long hallway, glass-fronted elevator, stairs. Up those stairs-he couldn't feel his footsteps. The fourth-floor landing-nobody in sight. Down to 408, drop the suitcoat. Inez screaming primed him-he kicked the door in.
Four men eating sandwiches.
Jones and Navarette at a table. Fontaine on the floor. Sugar Coates by the window, picking his teeth.
No weapons in sight. Nobody moved.
Odd sounds-'You're under arrest' strangling out. Jones put his hands up. Navarette raised his hands. Fontaine laced his hands behind his head. Sugar Ray said, 'Cat got your goddamn tongue, sissy?'
Ed jerked the trigger: once, twice-buckshot took off Coates' legs. Recoil-Ed braced against the doorway, aimed. Fontaine and Navarette stood up screaming; Ed SQUEEZED the trigger, blew them up in one spread. Recoil, a bad pull: half the back wall came down.
Blood spray thick-Ed stumbled, wiped his eyes. He saw Jones make the elevator.
He ran after him: slid, tripped, caught up. Jones was pushing buttons, screaming prayers-inches from the glass, 'Please Jesus.' Ed aimed point-blank, squeezed twice. Glass and buckshot took his head off.
Strong legs now, fuck civilian screams all around him.
Ed ran downstairs, into a crowd: blues, plainclothesmen. Hands pounded his back; men shouted his name. A voice close by: 'Millard's dead. Heart attack at the Bureau.'
CHAPTER FORTY
Rain for the funeral. A graveside service: Dudley Smith's eulogy, a priest's last words.
Every Bureau man attended: Thad Green's orders. Parker called out the press: a little ceremony after they planted Russ Millard. Bud watched Ed Exley comfort the widow-his best profile to the cameras.
A week of cameras, headlines: Ed Exley, 'L.A.'s Greatest Hero'-World War II stalwart, the man who slayed the Nite Owl slayers and their accomplice. Ellis Loew told the press the three confessed before they escaped-nobody mentioned the niggers were unarmed. Ed Exley was made.
The priest's spiel picked up steam. The widow started weeping-Exley put an arm around her shoulders. Bud walked away.
Lightning, more rain-Bud ducked into the chapel. Parker's soiree was set up: lectern, chairs, a table laid out with sandwiches. More lightning-Bud looked out the window, saw the casket hit the dirt. Ashes to fucking ashes-Stens got six months, scuttlebutt had Exicy and Inez a hot item: kill four jigs, get the girl.
The mourners headed up-Ellis Loew slipped, took a pratfall. Bud hit on the good stuff: Lynn, West Valley on the Kathy snuff. Let the bad shit go for now.
Into the chapel: raincoats and umbrellas dumped, a rush for seats. Parker and Exley stood by the lectern. Bud sprawled in a chair at the back.
Reporters, notepads. Front row seats: Loew, the widow Millard, Preston Exley-hot news for Dream-a-Dreamland.
Parker spoke into the mike. 'This is a sad occasion, an occasion of mourning. We mourn a kind and good man and a dedicated policeman. We mark his passing with regret. The loss of Captain Russell A. Millard is the loss of Mrs. Millard, the Millard family and all of us here. It will be a hard loss to bear, but bear it we will. There is a passage I recall from somewhere in the annals of literature. That passage is 'If there was no God, how could I be a Captain?' It is God who will see us through our grief and our loss. The God who allowed Russ Millard to become a captain, His captain.'
Parker pulled out a small velvet case. 'And life continues through our losses. The loss of one splendid policeman coincides with the emergence of another one. Edmund J. Exley, detective sergeant, has amassed a brilliant record in his ten years with the Los Angeles Police Department, three of those years given over to service in the United States Army. Ed Exley received the Distinguished Service Cross for gallantry in the Pacific Theater, and last week he evinced spectacular bravery in the line of duty. It is my honor to present him with the highest measure of honor this police department can bestow: our Medal of Valor.'
Exley stepped forward. Parker opened the case, took out a gold medallion hung from a blue satin ribbon and placed it around his neck. The men shook hands-Exley had tears in his eyes. Flashbulbs popped, reporters scribbled, no applause. Parker tapped the mike.
'The Medal of Valor is a very high expression of esteem, but not one with practical everyday applications. Spiritual ramifications aside, it does not reward the recipient with the challenge of good, hard police work. Today I am going to utilize a rarely used chief's prerogative and reward Ed Exley with work. I am promoting him two entire ranks, to captain, and assigning him as the Los Angeles Police Department's floating divisional commander, the assignment formerly held by our much loved colleague Russ Millard.'
Preston Exley stood up. Civilians stood up; the Bureau men stood on cue-Thad Green flashed them two thumbs. Scattered applause, lackluster. Ed Exley stood ramrod straight; Bud stayed sprawled in his chair. He took out his gun, kissed it, blew pretend smoke off the barrel.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
A gala lawn wedding, a Presbyterian service-old man Morrow called the shots and picked up the tab. June 19, 1953: the Big V ties the knot.
