mutilations-have Vincennes bring smut books to Bureau.' White's contribution: 'Patchett hinked on smut in '53'; 'Patchett/Englekling bros and father chem background'; 'Duke Cathcart's pad tossed & San Berdoo Yellow Pages (printshops) ruffled.' White was still holding back-he knew it.
Deposition underlined: 'Patchett involved (through Fleurde-Lis racket) in (contained) distribution of smut Ad Vice chasing in '53, smut Cathcart developed distribution scheme around, smut connected to mutilations on Hudgens' body.'
Conclusion:
A dense series of criminal conspiracies at least five years old resulting in no fewer than four and perhaps as many as a dozen major crimes.
The other men filed in-Parker, Dudley Smith, Ellis Loew. Nods, quick sit-downs.
Parker said, 'We're reopening. The A.G.'s Office wants to usurp the job, but Ellis has filed a restraining order against them, which should buy us two weeks' time. We've got two weeks to clear the case and recover the respect we lost. We've got two weeks before Sacramento comes down here and makes us a laughingstock. I want this case cleared, legally inviolate and in the hands of the grand jury within twelve days. Do you understand, gentlemen?'
Nods all around. Loew said, 'I'm personally in a difficult position here, since Coates, Jones and Fontaine did confess to me. On reflection, I must admit that they were stupid and naive boys psychologically susceptible to suggestion, so-'
Smith cut in. 'Ellis, that's blood under the bridge. We simply got the wrong coloreds, not the ones who fired off those shotguns in Griffith Park. The real culprits are some smart Darktown strutters who knew where Coates stashed his car, then planted the weapons. Lads who knew niggertown well and simply beat us to the location. The purple car seen by the Nite Owl was just a coincidence that the killers capitalized on. I think the Griffith Park car was stolen or out of state, and in any event I think it's not applicable. We have to begin by shaking down the southside again.'
Ed smiled-Smith's tack played into his plan. 'Essentially I agree, and I've got one of my I.A. men checking old registrations. But aren't we ahead of ourselves? Shouldn't we set up a chain of command first?'
Loew coughed. 'Ed, I think your shooting those thugs was a noble act, whatever your motives. But I think giving you the command would just make the press and the public more resentful. I think you should take a subsidiary role in this investigation.'
Outrage down pat. 'I'm tired of being the bad guy on the six o'clock news and I'm tired of my sex life in the papers. I'm also the best detective in the-'
Parker cut in. 'You are the best detective we have, and I understand your need to cut your losses. But Ellis is right, this is too personal with you. I've given Dudley the command. He'll recruit a team from Homicide and various squadrooms and take it from there.'
'And me? Do I get a piece of the case?'
Parker nodded. 'I'll give you anything within reason.'
The kill. 'I want the chance to develop my own evidence with I.A. autonomy. I want the use of my two personal aides from I.A. and my choice of two officers to serve as field runners.'
'That's fine by me. Dudley?'
'Yes, I think that's fair. Lad, who did you have in mind for runners?'
'Jack Vincennes and Bud White.'
Smith almost gawked. Parker said, 'Strange bedfellows, but then it's a strange case. Twelve days, gentlemen. Not one minute longer.'
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Jack woke up on the couch, wrote Karen a note.
Sweetie-
Fairs fair & yeah I screwed up with Ellis. But this goddamn sofa for two months isn't fair & if the Department can forgive me then you should be able to too. I haven't had a drink for six weeks, which if you checked the calendar by my closet you'd know. I don't expect you to think that makes everything right with us, but give me some credit for trying. I'll try-you want to go to law school, great, but I bet you'll hate it. In May I'll retire, maybe I can get a police chief job in some hick town near a good law school. I'll try, but cut me some slack because this deep freeze number is driving me crazy & right now I can't afford to be crazy because I've been detached back to work plainclothes on something that's very important to me. I'll probably be working late for the next week or so, but I'll call & check in.
J.
He dressed, waited for the phone to ring. Coffee in the kitchen, a note from Karen.
J.-
I've been a bitch lately. I'm sorry and I think we should try to figure some things out. You were asleep when I got home or I would have invited you into the boudoir.
XXXXX-K
P.S. A girl at work showed me this magazine that I thought you might be interested in seeing. I know you know that man Exley it mentions and it certainly is pertinent to what's been in the papers lately.
On the table: «Whisper»-'All the Dirt That's Fit to Print.' Jack thumbed it smiling, caught a Nite Owl spread.
Hopped-up stuff-'Crusading Private Eye,' 'Duke Cathcart impersonator,' smut speculation. Ed Exley raked over hot coals-Exley hatred big. A snap take: 'P.I.' Bud White shivs Exley-a February issue on sale in January, out before the Englekling brothers got clipped and that shine up at Quentin dropped that alibi. East Coast circulation, you probably couldn't find the rag in L.A. Exley and the high brass couldn't have seen it-or «he» would have heard.
The phone rang-Jack grabbed it. 'Exley?'
'Yes, and you're officially detached. White talked to Lynn Bracken. She's agreed to be pentothaled, and I want you to bring her in. She'll be waiting at that Chinese restaurant across from the Bureau in an hour. Meet her there and bring her up to I.A., and if she's got a lawyer get rid of him.'
'Look, I saw something I think you should see.'
'Just bring me the woman.'
The woman five years post-file burning-Lynn Bracken sipping tea at Al Wong's. Jack watched her through the window.
Still a showstopper. A brunette now, a thirty-fivish beauty drawing stares. She saw him. Jack got flutters: his file.
She walked out. Jack said, 'I didn't want this to happen.'
'You let it. And aren't you afraid of what I know about you?' Something skewed: she was too calm five minutes from a bracing. 'I've got this scary captain looking after me. If it came out, I'm betting he'd kibosh it.'
'Don't make any bets you can't cover. And I'm only doing this because Bud told me he'd get hurt if I didn't.'
'What else did Bud tell you?'
'Bad things about your scary captain. Can we go now? I want to get this over with.'
They walked across the street, up the back Bureau stairs. Fisk met them outside I.A., steered them to Exley's office. A scary set-up: scary Captain Ed. Ray Pinker, a desk covered with medical stuff-vials, syringes. A polygraph machine-backup if the truth juice failed.
Pinker filled a hypo. Exley pointed Lynn to a chair. 'Please, Miss Bracken.'
Lynn sat down. Pinker swabbed her left arm, fitted a tourniquet. Exley, all business. 'I don't know what Bud White told you, but essentially this is an investigation involving several interrelated criminal conspiracies. If you provide us with viable information we're prepared to grant you immunity on any possible criminal charges you might accrue.'
Lynn made a fist. 'I can't very well lie. Can we get this over with, please?'
Pinker took her arm, injected her. Exley punched a tape machine. Lynn went dreamy-eyed-not quite pentothal gaga. Exley talked into a hand mike. 'Witness Lynn Bracken, March 22, 1958. Miss Bracken, please count backward from one hundred.'
Slurs right off. 'Hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight, ninetysev, nine-six..
Pinker checked her eyes, nodded. Jack grabbed a chair. Still too calm-he could taste it.
Exley coughed. '3/22/58, present with the witness are myself, Sergeant Duane Fisk, Sergeant John Vincennes and forensic chemist Ray Pinker. Duane, transcribe in shorthand.'
Fisk grabbed a notepad. Exley said, 'Miss Bracken, how old are you?'
A slight slur. 'Thirty-four.'
'And your occupation?'
'Businesswoman.'
'Do you own Veronica's Dress Shop in Santa Monica?'
'Yes.'
'Why did you choose the name 'Veronica's'?'
'A personal joke.'
'Please elaborate.'
'It's a name from my old life.'
'How specifically?'
A dreamy smile. 'I used to be a prostitute made up to resemble Veronica Lake.'
'Who convinced you to do that?'
'Pierce Patchett.'
'I see. Did Pierce Patchett kill a man named Sid Hudgens in April 1953?'
'No. I mean I don't know. Why would he?'
'Do you know who Sid Hudgens was?'
'Yes. A scandal-sheet writer.'
'Did Patchett know Hudgens?'
