He made the Bureau ten minutes late. The Homicide pen was jam-packed _Badge of Honor_: Brett Chase, Miller Stanton, David Mertens the set man, Jerry Marsalas his nurse--one long bench crammed tight. Standing: Billy Dieterling, the camera crew, a half dozen briefcase men: attorneys for sure. The gang looked nervous; Duane Fisk and Don Kleckner paced with clipboards. No Mar Peltz, no Russ Millard.

  Billy D. shot him the fisheye; the rest of the gang waved. Jack waved back; Kieckner buttonholed him. "Ellis Loew wants to see you. Booth number six."

  Jack walked down. Loew was staring out a back wall mirror--a lie detector stall across the glass. Polygraph time: Millard questioning Peltz, Ray Pinker working the machine.

  Loew noticed him. "I'd rather Mar didn't have to go through that. Can you fix it?"

  Protecting a slush-fund contributor. "Ellis, I've got no truck with Millard. If Mar's lawyer advised him to do it, he'll have to do it."

  "Can Dudley fix it?"

  "Dud's got no truck with him either, Millard's the pious type. And before you ask me, I don't know who killed Sid, and I don't care. Has Max got an alibi?"

  "Yes, but one that he would rather not use."

  "How old is she?"

  "Quite young. Would--"

  "Yeah, Russ would file on him for it."

  "My God, all this for scum like Hudgens."

  Jack laughed. "Counselor, one of his little mudslings got you elected."

  "Yes, politics makes for strange bedfellows, but I doubt if he'll be grieved. You know, we've got nothing. I talked to those attorneys outside, and they all assured me their clients have valid alibis. They'll give statements and be eliminated, the rest of the _Badge of Honor_ people will be alibied and then we'll only have the rest of Hollywood to deal with."

  An opening. "Ellis, you want some advice?"

  "Yes, give me your appropriately cynical view."

  "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 like "In me, please in me." He rubbed himself hard on the bed, went in her, kept his hands on her breasts like she taught him. Hard inside her--he let himself go just as her legs pulsed and her hips pushed him up off the sheets--then his face pressing wet hair, their arms locked on each other tight.

  They rested, talked. Lynn talked up her diary: a thousand pages back to high school in Bisbee, Arizona. Bud rambled on the Nite Owl, his strongarm job in the morning--sitting-duck stuff he couldn't take much more of. Lynn's look said, "Then just give it up"; he didn't have an answer, so he spieled on Dudley, the heartbreaker rape girl with a crush on him, how he'd hoped the Nite Owl would swing another way so he could use itto juke this guy he hated. Lynn talked back with little touches; Bud told her he was letting the Kathy snuff go for now, it was too easy to go crazy on--crazy like his play with Dwight Gilette. Lynn pressed on his family; he told her "I don't have one"; he ran down his outlaw job: Cathcart, his pad tossed, his smut dream, the San Berdoo Yellow Pages open to printshops clicking in to the Englekling brothers plea bargain, then clicking out, back to the colored punks they had on ice. He knew she knew the gist: he was frustrated because he wasn't that smart, he wasn't really a Homicide detective--he was the guy they brought in to scare other guys shitless. After a while, the talk petered out--Bud felt restless, pissed at himself for spilling too much too fast. Lynn seemed to sense it: she bent down and drove him crazy with her mouth. Bud stroked her hair, still a little wet, glad she didn't have to fake it with him.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Evidence--the victims' belongings found near the Tevere Hotel; Coates' Mere and the shotguns located: forensic verification on the piece that shot the strangely marked rounds. No grand jury on earth would refuse to hand down Murder One. The Nite Owl case was made.

  Ed at his kitchen table, writing a report: Parker's last summary. Inez in the bedroom, her bedroom now, he couldn't get up the nerve to say: "Just let me sleep with you, we'll see how things go, wait on the other." She'd been moody--reading books on Raymond Dieterling, getting up nerve to ask the man for a job. The news on the guns didn't bolster her--even though it meant no testimony. Evidence--her outside wounds had healed, there was no physical pain to distract her. She kept feeling it happen.

  The phone rang; Ed grabbed it. An extra click--Inez picking up in the bedroom.

  "Hello?"

  "Russ Millard, Ed."

  "Captain, how are you?"

  "It's Russ to sergeants and up, son."

  "Russ, have you heard about the car and the guns? The Nite Owl's history."

  "Not exactly, and that's why I called. I just talked to a Sheriff's lieutenant I know, a man on the Jail Bureau. He told me he heard a rumor. Dudley Smith's taking Bud White in to beat confessions out of our boys. Tomorrow morning, early. I had them moved to another cellblock where they can't get at them."

  "Jesus Christ."

  "The savior indeed. Son, I have a plan. We go in early, confront them with the new evidence and try for legitimate confessions. You play the bad guy, I'll play savior."

  Ed squared his glasses. "What time?"

  "Say 7:00?"

  "All right."

  "Son, it means making an enemy out of Dudley."

  The bedroom line clicked off. "So be it. Russ, I'll see you tomorrow."

  "Sleep well, son. I need you alert."

  Ed hung up. Inez in the doorway, wearing his robe--huge on her. "You can't do this to me."

  "You shouldn't eavesdrop."

  "I was expecting a call from my sister. Exley, you can't."

  "You wanted them in the gas chamber, they're going there. You didn't want to testify, now I doubt if you'll have to."

  "I want them hurt. I want them to suffer."

  "No. It's wrong. This is a case that demands absolute justice."

  She laughed. "Absolute justice fits you like this robe fits me, _pendejo_."

  "You got what you wanted, Inez. Let it go at that and get on with your life."

  "What life? Living with you? You'll never marry me, you're so deferential around me that I want to scream and every time I've got myself convinced you're a pretty decent guy you do something that makes me say, '_Madre mia_, how can I be so dumb?' And now you'd deny me this? _This little thing?_"

  Ed held up his report. "Dozens of men built this case. Those animals will be dead by Christmas. _Todos_, Inez. _Absolutamente_. Isn't that enough?"

  She laughed--harder. "No. Ten seconds and they go to sleep. Six hours they beat me and fucked me and stuck things in me. No, it's not enough."

  Ed stood up. "So you'll let Bud White jeopardize our case. Ellis Loew probably arranged this, Inez. He's thinking airtight grand jury presentation, a two day trial with half of it him grandstanding. He'd jeopardize what he's already got for that. Be smart and recognize it."

  "No, you recognize that the fix is in. The _negritos_ die because that's the way it is. I'm just a witness nobody needs anymore, so maybe tomorrow Officer White takes a few licks for my justice."•

  Ed made fists. "White's a brutal disgrace of a policeman and a slimy, womanizing son of a bitch."

  "No, he's just a guy who calls a spade a spade and doesn't look six ways before he crosses the street."

  "He's shit. _Mierda_."

  "Then he's my _mierda_. Exley, I _know_ you. You don't give a damn about justice, you just care about yourself. You're only doing that thing tomorrow to hurt Officer White, and you're only doing it because you know that he knows what you are. You treat me like you want to love me, then you give me nothing but money and social connections, which you've got plenty of and won't miss. You take no risks for me, and Officer White risks his estüpido life and doesn't weigh the consequences, and when I get better you'll want to fuck me and set me up someplace where you won't have to be seen in public with me, which is revolting to me, and if for no other reason I love _estupido_ Officer White because at least he has the sense to know what you are."

  Ed walked up to her. "And what am I?"

  "Just a run-of-the-mill coward."

  Ed raised a fist, flinched when she flinched. Inez pulled off her robe. Ed looked, looked away--at the wall and his framed army medals. A target--he threw them across the room. Not enough. He took a bead on a window, reared back, hit soft padded curtains instead.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Jack woke up seeing smut.

  Karen in orgy shots--Veronica Lake loving her. Blood: fuck pix as coroner's pix, beautiful women drenched red. The first real thing he saw was daybreak--then Bud White's car parked by Lynn Bracken's pad.

  Cracked lips, bone aches head to toe. He swallowed his last bcnnies, brought back his last thoughts before oblivion.

  Nothing in the files, Patchett and Bracken his only Hudgens leads. Patchett had servants living in. Bracken lived alone--he'd brace her when White left her bed.

  Jack brainstormed a tailing report--lies to snow Dudley Smith. A door slammed--a sound like a gunshot. Bud White walked to his car.

  Jack hit the seat prone. The car pulled away, seconds, another gunshot/door slam. A quick look: a brunette Lynn Bracken heading out.

  Over to her car, up to Los Feliz, east. Jack followed: the right lane, dawdling back. Sparse early morning traffic: call the woman too distracted to spot him.

  Due cast, into Glendale. North on Brand, a swerve to the curb in front of a bank. Jack pulled around the corner to a sighting point--the corner store, a grocer's--milk cartons stacked by the door.

  He squatted down, watched the sidewalk. Lynn B. was talking to a man: nervous, a shaky little guy. He opened the bank and hustled her in; a Ford and Dodge were parked further down--no way to nail plate numbers. Lamar Hinton walked outside lugging boxes.

  Files, files, files--it had to be.

  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 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.

  Miller Stanton best man; Joanie Loew--swacked on champagne punch--matron of honor. Dudley Smith the hit of the reception--stories, Gaelic songs. Parker and Green came at Ellis Loew's request; boy captain Ed Exley showed up. The Morrows' social circle pals rounded out the guest list--and swelled old Welton's huge backyard to bursting.

  Marriage vows for his close-out. Bad debts settled good: new calendar days, his "insurance policy deposition" stashed in fourteen different bank vaults. Scary vows: he pumped himself up at the altar.

  Parker buried the Hudgens killing. Bracken and Patchett stalemated. Dudley called off his tail on White, bought his phony reports: no Lynn, White prowling bars at night. He staked Lynn's place for a couple of days, it looked like she had a good thing going with Bud--who always was a sucker.

  Like himself

  The minister said the words; they said the words; Jack kissed his bride. Hugs, backsiaps--well wishers swept them away from each other. Parker drummed up some warmth; Ed Exley worked the crowd, no sign of his Mexican girl. Nicknames now: "Shotgun Ed," "Triggerman Eddie." "L.A.'s Greatest Hero" smiles on a bagman cop marrying up.

  Jack found a spot above the pool house--a little rise with a view. Two celebrants stuck out: Karen, Exley. Give him credit: he seized the opportunity, made the Department look bold. He wouldn't have had the stomach for it--or the rage.

  Exley. White. Himself

  Jack counted secrets: his own, whatever lived at that edge where pornography touched a dead scandal monger and lightly brushed the Nite Owl Massacre. He thought of Bud White, Ed Exley. He sent up a wedding day prayer: the Nite Owl dead and buried, safe passage for ruthless men in love.

CALENDAR

  1954

EXTRACT: L.A. _Herald-Express_, June 16:

EX-POLICEMAN ARRESTED

    FOR MURDEROUS

    ROBBERY SPREE

  Richard Alex Stensland, 40, former Los Angeles police detective and a defendant in the 1951 "Bloody Christmas" police scandal, was arrested early this morning and charged with six counts of armed robbery and two counts of first-degree murder. Arrested with him at his hideout in Pacoima were Dennis "The Weasel" Burns, 43, and Lester John Miciak, 37. The other men were charged with four armed-robbery counts and two counts of first-degree murder.

  The arrest raid was led by Captain Edmund J. Exley, divisional floating commander for the Los Angeles Police Department, currently assigned to head up the LAPD's Robbery Division. Assisting Captain Exley were Sergeants Duane Fisk and Donald Kleckner. Exley, whose testimony in the Bloody Christmas scandal sent Stensland to jail in 1952, told reporters: "Eyewitnesses identified photographs of the three men. We have conclusive proof that these men are responsible for stickups at six central Los Angeles liquor stores, including the robbery of Sol's Liquors in the Silverlake District on June 9. The proprietor of that store and his son were shot and killed during that robbery and eyewitnesses place both Stensland and Burns at the scene. Intensive questioning of the suspects will begin soon, and we expect to clear up many other unsolved robberies."

  Stensland, Burns and Miciak offered no resistance during their arrest. They were taken to the Hall of Justice Jail, where Stensland was restrained from attacking Captain Exley.

BANNER: L.A. _Mirror-News_, June 21:

STENSLAND CONFESSES, DESCRIBES

   REIGN OF ROBBERY TERROR

BANNER:          L.A. _Herald-Express_, September 23:

LIQUOR STORE KILLERS CONVICTED;

DEATH PENALTY FOR EX-POLICEMAN

EXTRACT: L.A. _Times_, November 11:

STENSLAND DIES FOR LIQUOR STORE

KILLINGS--GUNMAN FORMER POLICEMAN

  At 10:03 yesterday morning, Richard Stensland, 41 and a former Los Angeles police officer, died in the gas chamber at San Quentin Prison for the June 9 murders of Solomon and David Abramowitz. The killings took place during a liquor store holdup. Stensland was convicted and sentenced on September 22 and refused to appeal his sentence.

  The execution went off smoothly, although Stensland appeared inebriated. Present among the press and prison officials were two LAPD detectives: Captain Edmund J. Exley, the man responsible for Stensland's capture, and Officer Wendell White, the condemned killer's former partner. Officer White visited Stensland in his death row cell on execution eve and stayed through the night with him. Assistant Warden B. D. Terwilliger denied that Officer White supplied Stensland with intoxicating liquor and denied that White viewed the execution while drunk himseW. Stensland verbally abused the prison chaplain who was present and his last words were obscenities directed at Captain Exley.

1955

_Hush-Hush_ Magazine, May 1955 Issue:

WHO KILLED SID HUDGENS?

  Justice in the City of the Fallen Angels reminds us of a line from that sin-sational sepia show _Porgy and Bess_. Like "a man," it's "a sometime thing." As in for instance: if you're a well-connected contributor to demon D.A. Ellis Loew's slush fund and you get murdered--killer beware!! !--L.A. Chief of Police William H. Parker will spare no expense unearthing the fiend who put you on the night train to the Big Adios. But if you're a crusading journalist writing for this magazine and you get chopped into Ken-L Ration in your own living room--killer rejoice!! !--Chief Parker and his moralistic, misanthropic, mindless mongolians will sit on their hands (well worn from palming payoffs) and whistle "justice is a sometime thing" while the killer whistles Dixie.

  It has now been two years since Sid Hudgens was fatally slashed in his Chapman Park living room. Two years ago the LAPD had its (sticky, graft-ridden) hands full with the infamous Nite Owl murder case, which was resolved when one of their members took the law into his own (overweeningly ambitious, opportunistic) hands and shotgunned the shotgunners to the Big Au Revoir. Sid Hudgens' murder was assigned to two flunky detectives with a total of zero "made" homicide cases between them. They, of course, did not fmd the killer or killers, spent most of their days here at the _Hush-Hush_ office reading back issues for clues, scarfing coffee and doughnuts and ogling the comely editorial assistants who flock to _Hush-Hush_ because we know where the bodies are buried . . .

  We at _Hush-Hush_ tap the inside pulse of the City of the Fallen Angels, and we _have_ investigated the Sidster's death on our own. We have gotten nowhere, and we ask the Los Angeles Police Department the following questions:

  Sid's pad was ransacked. What happened to the ultra on the QT, ultra secret and ultra _Hush-Hush_ files the Sidster was supposed to be keeping--sinuendo even too scalding for us to publish?

  Why didn't D.A. Ellis Loew, elected largely on the strength of a _Hush-Hush_ article exposing the peccadillos of his incumbent opponent, give us a backscratch in return and use his legal juice to force the LAPD to track down the Sidster's slayer?

  Celebrity cop John "Jack" Vincennes, the famous dope scourge "Big V," was a close friend of Sid's and was responsible for many of his crusading exposés on the menace of narcotics. Why didn't Jack (heavily connected to Ellis Loew--we won't utter the word "bagman," but feel free to _think_ it) investigate the killing on his own, out of paiship for his beloved buddy the Sidster?

  Unanswerable questions for now--unless _you_, the reading public, take up the cry. Look for updates in future issues--and remember, dear reader, you heard it first here: off the record, on the QT and _very_ Hush-Hush.

_Hush-Hush_ magazine, December 1955 issue:

JUSTICE WATCH: BEWARE THE

LOEW/VINCENNES COMBINE!!!!

  We've pussyfooted long enough, dear reader. In our May issue we marked the second anniversary of the fiendish murder of ace _Hush-Hush_ scribe Sid Hudgens. We lamented the fact that his killing remains unsolved, gently prodded the Los Angeles Police Department, D.A. Ellis Loew and his brother-in-law by marriage LAPD Sergeant Jack Vincennes to do something about it, asked a few pertinent questions and got no response. Seven months have passed without justice being done, so here's some more questions:

  Where _are_ Sid Hudgens' _ultra_ sin-tillating and sinsational secret files--the files too hot for even scalding _Hush-Hush_ to handle?

  Did D.A. Loew quash the Hudgens murder investigation because the crusading Sidster recently published an exposé on _Badge of Honor_ producer/director Max Pelts and his bent for teenage girls, and Pelts was a (five figure!!!) contributor to Loew's 1953 D.A.'s campaign fund?

  Has Loew ignored our pleas for justice because he's too busy gearing up for his spring 1957 reelection campaign? Is Jack "We won't use the word 'Bagman"' Vincennes again shaking down Hollywoodites for contributions for brother-in-law Ellis and thus unable to investigate the Sidster's death?

  More on the Big-time Big V:

  Is Vincennes, dope-buster supreme, on the sauce and feuding with his much younger rich-girl wife, who persuaded him to leave his beloved Narco Division, but now frets over his working the hazardous LAPD Surveillance Detail????

  Fuel for thought, dear reader--and a gentle prodding for belated justice. The search for justice for Sid Hudgens continues. Remember, dear reader: you heard it first here, off the record, on the QT and _very_ Hush-Hush.

1956

"Crimewatch" feature, _Hush-Hush_ Magazine, October 1956 issue:

GANGLAND DROUGHT AS COHEN

PAROLE APPROACHES: WILL FEAST

  FOLLOW FAMINE WITH THE

    MICKSTER REDUX?

  You, dear reader, probably haven't noticed, since you're a law-abiding citizen who relies on _Hush-Hush_ to keep you abreast of the dark and sin-sational side of life. This publication has been accused of being sin-ical, but we're also sin-cere in our desire to inform you of the perils of crime, organized and otherwise, which is why this periodical periodically offers a "Crimewatch" feature. This month we offer a palpably percolating potpourri centering on malicious L.A. mob activity or the lack of it, our focus the currently incarcerated Meyer Harris Cohen, 43, also known as the misanthropic Mickster, the inimitable Mickey C.

  The Mick has been reposing at McNeil Island Federal pen since November of 1951, and he should be paroled sometime next year, certainly by the end of 1957. You all know Mickey by reputation: he's the dapper little gent who ruled the L.A. rackets circa '45 to '51, until Uncle Sammy popped him for income tax evasion. He's a headline grabber, he's a big mocher, face it: he's a mensch. And he's up at McNeil, freezing his toches in the admittedly plush cell, his pet bulldog Mickey Cohen, Jr., keeping his tootsies warm, his money man Davey Goldman, also convicted of tax beefs, warming a cell down the hail. L.A. gangland activity has been--enjoying? _enduring?_--a strange lull since Mickey packed his PJs for Puget Sound, and we at _Hush-Hush_, privy to many unnamable insider sources, have a theory as to what's been shaking. Listen close, dear reader: this is off the record, on the QT and _very_ Hush-Hush.

  November '51: adios Mickey, pack a toothbrush and don't forget to write. Before catching the McNeil Island Express, the Mickster informs his number two man, Morris Jahelka, that he (Mo) will remain titular boss of Kingdom Cohen, which Mickey has "long-term loan" divested to various legit, non-criminal businessmen that he trusts, to be quietly run by out-of-town muscle on a drastically scaled-down basis. Mickey may come off like a vicious buffoon, but Mrs. Cohen's little boy has a head on his simian shoulders.

  Are you on our wavelength so far, dear reader? Yes? Good, now listen even more closely.

  Mickey languishes in his cell, living the prison life of Riley, and time goes by. The Mick gets percentage fees from his "franchise holders," funneled straight to Swiss bank accounts, and when he's paroled he'll get "giveback fees" and have Kingdom Cohen returned to him on a platter. He'll rebuild his evil empire and happy days will be here again.

  Such is the power of the ubiquitous Mickey C. that for several years no upstart gangsters try to crash his lulled-down, on-siesta rackets. Jack "The Enforcer" Whalen, however, a well-known thug/gambler, somehow knows of Mickey's plan to let sleeping dogs snooze while he's stuck in stir and the police are gratefully twiddling their thumbs with no mobster nests to swat. Whalen does not attack the diminutized Kingdom Cohen--he simply builds up a rival, strictly bookmaking kingdom with no fear of reprisals.

  Meanwhile, what has happened to some of the Mickster's chief goons? Well, nebbish-like Mo Jahelka keeps triplicate sets of books for the franchise holders, whiz at figures that he is, and Davey Goldman, stuck in stir with his boss, walks Mickey Cohen, Jr., around the McNeil Island yard. Abe Teitlebaum, Cohen muscle goon, owns a delicatessen that features greasy sandwiches named after Borscht Belt comedians, and Lee Vachss, Mr. Icepick To The Ear, sells patent medicine. _Our_ favorite Mickey misanthrope, Johnny Stompanato (sometimes known as "Oscar" because of his Academy Award--size appendage), nurses a long-term case of the hots for Lana Turner, and may have returned to his old pre-Cohen ways: running blackmail/extortion rackets. Assuming that Whalen and Mickey don't collide upon the Mick's release, things look hunky-dory and copacetic, don't they? Gangland amity all around?

  Perhaps _no_.

  Item: in August of 1954, John Fisher Diskant, an alleged Cohen franchise holder, was gunned down outside a motel in Culver City. No suspects, no arrests, current disposition: the case reposes in the open file of the Culver City P.D.

  Item: May 1955: two alleged Cohen prostitution bosses, franchise holders both--Nathan Janklow and George Palevsky--are gunned down outside the Torch Song Tavern in Riverside. No suspects, no arrests, current disposition: the Riverside County sheriff says case closed due to lack of evidence.

  Item: July 1956: Walker Ted Turow, known drug peddler who had recently stated his desire to "push white horse very large and become a bonaroo racketeer" is found shot to death at his pad in San Pedro. You guessed it: no clues, no suspects, no arrests, current disposition with the LAPD's Harbor Division: open file, we're not holding our breath.

  Now, dig it, children: all four of these gang-connected or would be gang-connected chumps were shot dead by three-man trigger gangs. The cases were barely investigated because the respective investigating agencies considered the victims lowlifes whose deaths did not merit justice. We wish we could say that ballistics reports indicate that the same guns were used for all three shootings, but they weren't--although .30-30 ripples pistols were the killers' M.O. all three times. And we at _Hush-Hush_ know that no interagency effort has been launched to catch the killers. In fact, we at _Hush-Hush_ are the first even to connect the crimes in theory. Tsk, tsk. We _do_ know that Jack Whalen and his chief factotums are alibied up tight as a crab's pincer for the times of the killings and that Mickey C. and Davey G. have been questioned and have no idea who the bad boys are. Intriguing, right, dear reader? So far, no overt moves have been made to take over siesta time Kingdom Cohen, but we have word that Mickey minion Morris Jahelka has packed up and moved to Florida, scared witless . .

  And the Mickster is soon to be paroled. What will happen then??????

  Remember, dear reader, you saw it here first. Off the record, on the QT and _very_ Hush-Hush.

1957

            CONFIDENTIAL LAPD REPORT: compiled by

            Internal Affairs Division, dated 2/10/57

     Investigating officer: Sgt. D. W. Fisk, Badge 6129,

     IAD. Submitted at the request of Deputy Chief Thad

              Green, Chief of Detectives

       Subject: White, Wendell A., Homicide Division

Sir:

  When you initiated this investigation you stated that Officer White passing the sergeant's exam with high marks after two failing attempts and nine years in the Bureau startled you, especially in the light of Lt. Dudley Smith's recent promotion to captain. I have thoroughly investigated Officer White and have come up with many contradictory items which should interest you. Since you already have access to Officer White's arrest record and personnel sheet, I will concentrate solely on those items.

  1. White, who is unmarried and without immediate family, has been intimately involved on a sporadic basis with one Lynn Margaret Bracken, age 33, for the past several years. This woman, the owner of Veronica's Dress Shop in Santa Monica, is rumored (unsubstantiated by police records) to be an ex-prostitute.

  2. White, who was brought into Homicide by Lt. Smith in 1952, has, of course, not turned into the superior case man that (now) Capt. Smith assumed he would be. His 1952--5 3 work under Lt. Smith with the Surveillance Detail was, of course, legendary, and resulted in White's killing two men in the line of duty. Since his (April 1953) shooting of Nite Owl case collateral suspect Sylvester Fitch, White has served under Lt./Capt. Smith with little formal distinction. However (rather amazingly), there have been no excessive force complaints filed against him (see White's personnel sheets 1948--51 for records of his previous dismissed complaints). It is known that during those years and up until the spring of 1953 White visited paroled wife beaters and verbally and/or physically abused them. Evidence points to the fact that these illegal forays have not recurred for almost four years. White remains volatile (as you know, he received a departmental reprimand for punching out windows in the Homicide pen when he received word that his former partner, Sgt. R. A. Stensland, had been sentenced to death), but it is known that he has sometimes avoided work with Lt./Capt. Smith's Mobster Squad, straining his relationship with Smith, his Bureau mentor. Citing the violent nature of the assignment, White has been quoted as saying, "I've got no more stomach left for that stuff." Interesting, when given White's reputation and past record.

  3. In spring 1956, White took nine months' accumulated sick leave and vacation time when Capt. E. J. Exley rotated in as acting commander of Homicide. (A well-known hatred exists between White and Capt. Exley, deriving from the 1951 Christmas brutality affair.) During his time off from duty, White (whose Academy scores indicate only average intelligence and below average literacy) attended criminology and forensics classes at USC and took and passed (at his own expense) the FBI'S "Criminal Investigation Procedures" seminar at Quantico, Virginia. White had failed the sergeant's exam twice before embarking on these studies, and on his third attempt passed with a score of 89. His sergeantcy should come in before the end of the 1957 calendar year.

  4. In November 1954, R. A. Stensland was executed at San Quentin. White asked for and received permission to attend the execution. He spent the night before the execution on death row drinking with Stensland. (I was told the assistant warden overlooked this infraction of prison rules out of a regard for Stensland's ex-policeman status.) Capt. Exley also attended the execution, and it is not known if he and White had words before or after the event.

  5. I saved the most interesting item for last. It is interesting in that it illustrates White's continued (and perhaps increasing) tendency to overinvolve himself in matters pertaining to abused and (now) murdered women. I.e., White has shown undue curiosity in a number of unsolved prostitute killings that he believes to be connected: murders that have taken place in California and various parts of the West over the past several years. The victim's names, DODs and locations of death are:

          Jane Mildred Hamsher, 3/08/5 1, San Diego

          Kathy NMI Janeway, 4/19/53, Los Angeles

          Sharon Susan Palwick, 8/29/5 3, Bakersfield, Calif.

          Sally NMI DeWayne, 11/02/55, Needles, Ariz.

            Chrissie Virginia Renfro, 7/16/56, San Francisco

  White has told other Homicide officers that he thinks evidential similarities point to one killer, and he has traveled (at his own expense) to the above-listed cities where the crimes occurred. Naturally, the detectives that White has talked to considered him a pest and were reluctant to share information with. him, and it is not known whether he has made progress toward solving any of the above cases. Lt. J. S. DiCenzo, Commander of the West Valley Station squad, stated that he thinks White's hooker-killing fixation dates back to the time of the Nite Owl case, when White became personally concerned about the murder of a young prostitute (Kathy Janeway) he was acquainted with.

  6. All in all, a surprising investigation. Personally, I admire White's initiative and persistence in pursuing a sergeantcy and his (albeit untoward) tenacity in the matter of the prostitute homicides. A list of my interview references will follow in a separate memo.

          Respectfully,

          Sgt. D. W. Fisk, 6129, lAD

CONFIDENTIAL LAPD REPORT: Compiled by

Internal Affairs Division, dated 3/11/57

            Investigating officer: Sgt. Donald Kieckner, badge 688,

          IAD. Submitted at the request of William H. Parker,

Chief of Police

            Subject: Vincennes, John, Sergeant, Surveillance Detail

Sir:

  You stated that you wished to explore, in light of Sgt. Vincennes' deteriorating duty performance, the advisability of offering him early retirement by stress pension before the twentieth anniversary of his LAPD appointment comes up in May 1958. I deem that measure inappropriate at this time. Granted, Vincennes is an obvious alcoholic; granted also, his alcoholism cost him his job with _Badge of Honor_ and thus cost the LAPD a small fortune in promotional considerations. Granted again, at 42 he is too old to be working a high-risk assignment such as the Surveillance Detail. As for his admittedly deteriorating performance, it is only deteriorating because Vincennes was, during his Narcotics Division heyday, a bold and inspired policeman. From my interviews I have concluded that he does not drink on duty and that his deteriorating performance can best be summed up by "sluggishness" and "bad reflexes." Moreover, should Vincennes reject an early retirement offer, my guess is that the pension board would back him up.

  Sir, I know that you consider Vincennes a disgrace as a policeman. I agree with you, but advise you to consider his connection to District Attorney Loew. The Department needs Loew to prosecute our cases, as your new chief aide, Capt. Smith, will tell you. Vincennes continues to solicit funds and run errands for Loew, and should Loew, as expected, be reelected next week, he would most likely intercede if you decided to pressure Vincennes out of the Department. My recommendation is as follows: keep Vincennes on Surveillance until 3/58, when a new commander is scheduled to rotate in with his own replacement officers, then assign him to menial duties in a patrol division until his 5/15/58 retirement date arrives. At that time, Vincennes, humbled by a return to uniformed duty, could probably be persuaded to separate from the Department with all due speed.

          Respectfully,

          Donald J. Kieckner, IAD

BANNER: L.A. _Times_, March 15:

LOEW REELECTED IN LANDSLIDE;

   STATEHOUSE BID NEXT?

EXTRACT: L.A. _Times_, July 8:

MICKEY COHEN WOUNDED IN

  PRISON YARD ATTACK

  McNeil Island Federal Prison officials announced that yesterday mobsters Meyer Harris "Mickey" Cohen and David "Davey" Goldman were wounded in a vicious daylight attack.

  Cohen and Goldman, both slated to be paroled in September, were watching a softball game on the prison yard when three hooded assailants wielding pipes and handmade "shivs" descended. Goldman was stabbed twice in the shoulder and beaten viciously about the head, and Cohen escaped with superficial puncture wounds. Prison doctors said that Goldman's injuries are severe and that he may have suffered irreparable brain damage. The assailants escaped, and at this moment a massive investigation is being conducted to discover who they are. McNeil administrator R. J. Wolf said, "We believe this was a so-called death contract, contracted to in-prison inmates by outside sources. Every effort will be made to get to the bottom of this incident."

_Hush-Hush_ Magazine, October 1957 issue:

MICKEY COHEN BACK IN L.A.!!! ARE

HIS BAD OLD GOOD TIMES HERE TO

STAY???

  He was the most colorful mobster the City of Fallen Angels had ever seen, Hepcat--and to dig his act at the Mocambo or the Troc was like watching Daddy-o Stradivarius chop a fiddle from a tree trunk. He'd crack jokes written by gagster Davey Goldman, slip fat envelopes to the bagmen from the Sheriff's Department and do a wicked Lindy hop with his squeeze Audrey Anders or the other comely quail sashaying on the premises. Eyes would dart to his table and the ladies would surreptitiously survey his chief bodyguard, Johnny Stompanato, and wonder, "Is he really _that_ large?" Sycophants, stooges, glad-handers, pissanters and general rimbamboos would drop by the Mickster's side, to be rewarded with jokes, a backslap, a handout. The Mick was a soft touch for crippled kids, stray dogs, the Salvation Army and the United Jewish Appeal. The Mick also ran bookmaking, loansharking, gambling, prostitution and dope rackets and killed an average of a dozen people a year. Nobody's perfect, right, Hepcat? You leave your toenail trimmings on the bathroom floor, Mickey sends people on the night train to Slice City.

  Dig it, Hepcat: people also tried to kill Mickey!!! A mensch like that?--No! !!! Yes, Hepcat, what goes around comes around. The trouble was, the Mick had more lives than the proverbial feline, kept dodging bombs, bullets and dynamite while those around him went down dead, survived six years at McNeil Island Pen, including a recent shiv/pipe attack--and now he's back! Sy Devore, watch out: the Mickster will be in for a few dozen shiny new sharkskin suits; Trocadero and Mocambo cigarette girls, get ready for some C-note tips. Mickey and his entourage will soon descend on the Sunset Strip, and--_very Hush-Hush_--yes, ladies, Johnny Stompanato is _that_ large, but he only has eyes for Lana Turner, and word is that he and Lana have been playing more than footsie lately . . .

  But back to Mickey C. Avid _Hush-Hush_ readers will recall our October '56 Crimewatch feature, where we speculated on the gangland "lull" that has been going on since the Mick went to stir. Well, some still unsolved deaths occurred, and that pipe/shiv attack that wounded Mickey and left his stooge Davey Goldman a vegetable? Well . . . they never got the hooded inmate assailants who attempted to send Mickey and his man to Slice City...

  Call this a warning, children: he's a mensch, he's local color to the nth degree, he's the marvelous, malevolent benevolent Mickster. He's tough to kill, 'cause innocent bystanders take the hot lead with his name on it. Mickey's back, and his old gang might be forming up again. Hepcat, when you club hop on the sin-tillating Sunset Strip, bring a bulletproof vest in case Meyer Harris Cohen sits nearby.

EXTRACT: L.A. _Herald-Express_, November 10:

MOBSTER COHEN SURVIVES BOMB ATTEMPT

  A bomb exploded under the home of paroled mobster Mickey Cohen early this morning. Cohen and his wife, Lavonne, were not injured, but the bomb did destroy a wardrobe room that housed three hundred of Cohen's custom-made suits. Cohen's pet bulldog, alseep nearby, was treated for a singed tail at Westside Veterinary Hospital and released. Cohen could not be reached for comment.

Confidential letter, addendum to the outside agency investigation report required on all incoming commanders of Internal Affairs Division, Los Angeles Police Department. Requested by Chief William H. Parker.

                    11/29/57

Dear Bill--

  God, we were sergeants together! It seems like a million years ago, and you were right. I did relish the chance to slip briefly back into harness and play detective again. I felt slightly treacherous interviewing officers behind Ed and Preston's back, but again you were right: firstly in your overall policy of outside agency validation for incoming I.A. chiefs, and secondly in choosing an ex-policeman predisposed to like Ed Exley to query brother officers on the man. Hell, Bill, we both love Ed. Which makes me happy to state that, basic investigation aside (the D.A.'s Bureau is conducting it, aren't they?), I have nothing but positives to report.

  I spoke to a number of Detective Bureau men and a number of uniformed officers. One consensus of opinion held: Ed Exley is very well respected. Some officers considered his shooting of the Nite Owl suspects injudicious, most considered it bold and a few tagged it as intentionally grandstanding. Whatever, my opinion is that that act is what Ed Exley is most remembered for and that it has largely eclipsed the bad feelings he generated by serving as an informant in the Bloody Christmas matter. Ed's jump from sergeant to captain was greatly resented, but he is considered to have proven his mettle as divisional floater: the man has run seven divisions in under five years, established many valuable contacts and has earned the general respect of the men serving under him. Your basic concern: that his "not one of the boys" nature would provoke anger when it was learned that he would be running I.A., seems so far to be unfounded. Word is out that Ed will take over l.A. early in '58, and it is tacitly assumed that he will vigorously pursue the assignment. My guess is that his reputation for sternness and intelligence will deter many potentially bent cops into sticking to the straight and narrow.

  It is also known that Ed has passed the exam for promotion to inspector and is first on the promotion list. Here some notes of discord appear. It is generally viewed that Thad Green will retire in the next several years and that Ed might well be chosen to replace him as chief of detectives. The great majority of the men I spoke to voiced the opinion that Capt. Dudley Smith, older, much more experienced and more the leader type, should have the job.

  Some personal observations to supplant your outside agency report. (1) Ed's relationship with Inez Soto is physically intimate, but I know he would never violate departmental regs by cohabitating with her. Inez is a great kid, by the way. She's become good friends with Preston, Ray Dieterling and myself, and her public relations work for Dream-a-Dreamland is near briffiant. And so what if she's a Mexican? (2)1 spoke to I.A. Sgts. Fisk and Kieckner about Ed--the two worked Robbery under him, are junior straight-arrow Exley types and are positively ecstatic that their hero is about to become their C.O. (3) As someone who has known Ed Exley since he was a child, and as an ex--police officer, I'll go on the record: he's as good as his father and I'd be willing to bet that if you made a tally you'd see that he's made more major cases than any LAPD detective ever. I'm also willing to bet that he's wise to this affectionate little ploy you've initiated: all good cops have intelligence networks.

  I'll close with a favor. I'm thinking of writing a book of reminiscences about my years with the Department. Would it be possible for me to borrow the file on the Loren Atherton case? Without Preston and Ed knowing, please--I don't want them to think I've gone arty-farty in my waning years.

  I hope this little addendum serves you well. Best to Helen, and thanks for the opportunity to be a cop again.

                    Sincerely,

                    Art De Spain

LAPD TRANSFER BULLETINS

  1. Officer Wendell A. White, Homicide Division to the Hollywood Station Detective Squad (and to assume the rank of Sergeant), effective 1/2/5 8.

  2. Sgt. John Vincennes, Surveillance Detail to Wilshire Division Patrol, effective when a replacement officer is assigned, but no later than 3/15/58.

  3. Capt. Edmund J. Exley to permanent duty station: Commander, Internal Affairs Division, effective 1/2/5 8.

PART THREE

     Internal Affairs

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  The Dining Car had a New Year's hangover: drooping crepe paper, "1958" signs losing spangles. Ed took his favorite booth: a view of the lounge, his image in a mirror. He marked the time--3:24 P.M., 1/2/58. Let Bob Gallaudet show up late--anything to stretch the moment.

  In an hour, the ceremony: Captain E. J. Exley assumes a permanent duty station--Commander, Internal Affairs Division. Gallaudet was bringing the results of his outside agency validation--the D.A.'s Bureau had gone over his personal life with a magnifying glass. He'd pass--his personal life was squeaky clean, putting the Nite Owl boys in the ground outgunned his Bloody Christmas snitching--he'd known it for years.

  Ed sipped coffee, eyes on the mirror. His reflection: a man a month from thirty-six who looked forty-five. Blond hair gone gray; crease lines in his forehead. Inez said his eyes were getting smaller and colder; his wire rims made him look harsh. He'd told her harsh was better than soft--boy captains needed help. She'd laughed--it was a few years ago, when they were still laughing.

  He placed the conversation: late '54, Inez analytical--"You're a ghoul for watching that man Stensland die." A year and a half post--Nite Owl; today made four years and nine months. A look in the mirror, a claim on those years--and what he'd had with Inez.

  His killings pushed Bud White out: four deaths eclipsed one death. Those first months she was all his: he'd proven himself to her specifications. He bought her a house down the block; she loved their gentle sex; she accepted Ray Dieterling's job offer. Dieterling fell in love with Inez and her story: a beautiful rape victim abandoned by her family dovetailed with his own losses-- once divorced, once widowered, his son Paul dead in an avalanche, his son Billy a homosexual. Ray and Inez became father and daughter--colleagues, deep friends. Preston Exley and Art De Spain joined Dieterling in devotion--a circle of hardcase men and a woman who made them grateful for the chance to feel gentle.

  Inez took friendships from a fantasy kingdom: the builders, the second generation--Billy Dieterling, Timmy Valburn. A chatty little clique: they talked up Hollywood gossip, poked fun at male foibles. The word "men" sent them into gales of laughter. They made fun of policemen and played charades in a house bought by Captain Ed Exley.

  All claims came back to Inez.

  After the killings, he had nightmares: were they innocent? Impotent rage made his finger jerk the trigger; the dramatic resolution made the Department look so good that little facts like "Unarmed" and "Not Dangerous" would never surface to crush him. Inez stilled his fears with a statement: the rapists drove her to Sylvester Fitch's house in the middle of the night and left her there--giving them time to take down the Nite Owl. She never told the police about it because she did not want to recount the especially ugly things that Fitch did to her. He was relieved: _guilty_ dead men shored up the justice in his rage.

  Inez.

  Time passed, the glow wore off--her pain and his heroism couldn't sustain them. Inez knew he'd never marry her: a high-ranking cop, a Mexican wife--career suicide. His love held by threads; Inez grew remote--a sometime lover in practice. Two people molded by extraordinary events, a powerful supporting cast hovering: the Nite Owl dead, Bud White.

  White's face in the green room: pure hatred while Dick Stensland sucked gas. A look at Dicky Stens dying, a look his way, no words necessary. Leave time called in so they wouldn't have to work together when he took over Homicide. He'd surpassed his brother, grown closer to his father. His major case record was astounding; in May he'd be an inspector, in a few years he'd compete with Dudley Smith for chief of detectives. Smith had always given him a wide berth and a wary respect couched in contempt--and Dudley was the most feared man in the LAPD. Did he know that his rival feared only one thing: revenge perpetrated by a thug/cop without the brains to be imaginative?

  The bar was filling up: D.A.'s personnel, a few women. The last time with Inez was bad--she just serviced the man who paid the mortgage. Ed smiled at a tall woman--she turned away.

  "Congratulations, Cap. You're Boy Scout clean."

  Gallaudet sat down--strained, nervous.

  "Then why do you look so grim? Come on, Bob, we're partners."

  "_You're_ clean, but Inez was put under loose surveillance for two weeks, just routine. Ed . . . oh shit, she's sleeping with Bud White."

o        o          o

  The ceremony--one big blur.

  Parker made a speech: policemen were subject to the same temptations as civilians, but needed to keep their baser urges in check to a greater degree in order to serve as moral exemplars for a society increasingly undercut by the pervasive influence of Communism, crime, liberalism and general moral turpitude. A morally upright exemplar was needed to command the division that served as a guarantor of police morality, and Captain Edmund J. Exley, war hero and hero of the Nite Owl murder case, was that man.

  He made a speech himself: more pap on morality. Duane Fisk and Don Kleckner wished him luck; he read their minds through his blur: they wanted his chief assistant spots. Dudley Smith winked, easy to read: "I will be our next chief of detectives--not you." Excuses for leaving took forever--he made it to her place with the blur clearing hard.

  6:00--Inez got home around 7:00. Ed let himself in, waited with the lights out.

  Time dragged; Ed watched his watch hands move. 6:50--a key in the door.

  "Exley, are you skulking? I saw your car outside."

  "No lights. I don't want to see your face." Noises--keys rattling, a purse dropped to the floor. "And I don't want to see all that faggot Dreamland junk you've plastered on the walls."

  "You mean the walls of the house you paid for?"

  "You said it, not me."

  Sounds: Inez resting herself against the door. "Who told you?"

  "It doesn't matter."

  "Are you going to ruin him for it?"

  "_Him?_ No, there's no way I could do it without making myself look even more foolish than I've been. And you can say his name."

  No answer.

  "Did you help him with the sergeant's exam? He didn't have the brains to pass it on his own."

  No answer.

  "How long? How many fucks behind my back?"

  No answer.

  "How long, _puta?_"

  Inez sighed. "Maybe four years. On and off, when we each needed a friend."

  "You mean when you didn't need me?"

  "I mean when I got exhausted being treated like a rape victim. When I got terrified of how far you'd go to impress me."

  Ed said, "I took you out of Boyle Heights and gave you a life." Inez said, "Exley, you started to scare me. I just wanted to be a girl seeing a guy, and Bud gave me that."

  "Don't you say his name in this house."

  "You mean in your house?"

  "I gave you a decent life. You'd be pounding tortillas on a rock if it wasn't for me."

  "_Querido_, you turn ugly so well."

  "How many other lies, Inez? How many other lies besides him?"

  "Exley, let's break this off."

  "No, give me a rundown."

  No answer.

  "How many other men? How many other lies?"

  No answer.

  "Tell me."

  No answer.

  "You fucking whore, after what I did for you. _Tell me_."

  No answer.

  "I let you be friends with my father. _Preston Exley is your friend because of me_. How many other men have you fucked behind my back? How many other lies after what I did for you?"

  Inez, a small voice. "You don't want to know."

  "Yes I do, you fucking whore."

  Inez pushed off the door. "Here's the only lie that counts, and it's all for you. Not even my sweetie pie Bud knows it, so I hope it makes you feel special."

  Ed stood up. "Lies don't scare me."

  Inez laughed. "_Everything_ scares you."

  No answer.

  Inez, calm. "The _negritos_ who hurt me couldn't have killed the people at the Nite Owl, because they were with me the whole night. They never left my sight. I lied because I didn't want you to feel bad that you'd killed four men for me. And you want to know what the _big_ lie is? You and your precious absolute justice."

  Ed pushed out the door, hands on his ears to kill the roar. Dark, cold outside--he saw Dick Stens strapped down dead.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Bud checked out his new badge: "Sergeant" where "Policeman" used to be. He put his feet up on his desk, said goodbye to Homicide.

  His cubicle was a mess--five year's worth of paper. Dudley said the Hollywood squad transfer was just temporary--his sergeantcy shocked the brass, Thad Green was juking him for his window-punching number: Dick Stens green room bound, left/right hooks into glass. A fair trade: he never became a crackerjack case man because the only cases that mattered were case closed and case/cases shitcanned. Transfer blues: leaving Bureau HQ meant no early crack at dead-body reports--a good way to keep tabs on the Kathy Janeway case and the hooker snuff string he knew tied to it.

  Stuff to take with him:

  His new nameplate--"Sergeant Wendell White," a picture of Lynn: brunette, goodbye Veronica Lake.

  A Mobster Squad photo: him and Dud at the Victory Motel. Mobster Squad goodies--brass knuckles, a ball-bearing sap--he might leave them behind.

  Lock and key stuff:

  His FBI and forensics class diplomas; Dick Stensland's legacy: six grand from his robbery take. Dick's last words--a note a guard passed him.

Partner--

  I regret the bad things I done. I especially regret the people I hurt when I was a policeman who just got in my way when I was feeling mean and the Christmas guys and the liquor store man and his son. It's too late to change it all. So all I can do is say I'm sorry, which don't mean anything worthwhile. I'll try to take my punishment like a man. I keep thinking it could be you instead of me who did what I did, that it was just the luck of the draw and I know maybe you've thought the same thing. I wish being sorry counted for more with guys like you and me. I payed the piper and called the tune and all that, but Exley kept the piper tune going when he didn't have to and if I got a last request it is that you get him for his share and don't be stupid and do something dumb like I would have did. Use your brains and that money I told you where to find and give it to him good, a good one in the keester from Sergeant Dick Stens. Good luck, partner. I can't hardly believe that when you read this I'll be dead.

                    Dick

  Double-locked in the bottom drawer:

  His file on the Janeway/hooker snuffs, his private Nite Owl file--textbook pure, like he learned in school.

  Two cases that proved he was a real detective; Dick's shot at Ed Exley. He pulled them out, read them over--college boy stuff all the way.

  The Janeway string.

  When things sizzled down with Lynn, he started looking for stuff to jazz him. Prowling for women didn't cut it--ditto his on-and-off thing with Inez. He flunked the sergeant's exam twice, paid his way through school with Dick's stash, worked the Mobster Squad part-time: meeting trains, planes, buses, taking would-be racketeers to the Victory Motel, beating the shit out of them and escorting them back to planes, trains, buses. Dud called it "containment"; he called it too much to take and still like looking at yourself in the mirror. Good cases never came his way at Homicide: Thad Green bootjacked them, assigned different men. His classes taught him interesting stuff about forensics, criminal psychology and procedure--he decided to apply what he'd learned to an old case that still simmered with him: the Kathy Janeway job.

  He read Joe DiCenzo's case file: no leads, no suspects, written off as a random sex kill. He read the autopsy reconstruction: Kathy beaten to death, face blows, a man with rings on both fists. B + secretor semen in the mouth, rectum, vagina--three separate ejaculations, the bastard took his time. He got a flash backed up by case histories: a sex fiend like that doesn't kill just once, then go back to twiddling his thumbs.

  He started paper-prowling--the kind of thing he used to hate.

  No similar solveds or unsolveds anywhere in the LAPD and Sheriff's Department files--the search took him eight months. He worked his way through other police agencies--Stens' money for a stake. Zero for Orange County, San Bernardino County; four months in and a match with the San Diego PD: Jane Mildred Hamsher, 19, hooker, DOD 3/8/51, the same handwork and three-way rape: no clues, no suspects, case closed.

  He read LAPD and SDPD M.O. files and got nowhere; he remembered Dudley warning him off the Janeway case--ragging him for going crazy on woman basher jobs. He went ahead anyway; paydirt on a tn-state teletype: Sharon Susan Palwick, 20, hooker, DOD 8/29/53, Bakersfield, California. The same specs: no suspects, no leads, case closed. Dud never mentioned the teletype--if he knew it existed.

  He went to Diego and Bakerfield--read files, pestered detectives who worked the cases. They were bored with the jobs--and gave him the brush. He tried reconstructing the time and place element: who was in those cities on the dates of the killings. He checked old train, bus and airplane records, got no crossover names, put out standing tri-state teletypes requesting information on the killer's M.O., asking for call-ins should his killer ply that M.O. again. Nothing came in on the info request; three dead-body reports trickled in oven the years: Sally NMI DeWayne, 17, hooker, Needles, Arizona, 11/2/55; Chrissie Virginia Renfro, 21, hooker, San Francisco, 7/14/56; Mania NMI Waldo, 20, hooker, Seattle two months ago: 11/28/57. The call-ins logged in late, the same results: goose egg. Every angle, every schoolboy approach tapped--for nothing. Kathy Janeway and five other prostitutes raped, beaten to death--open stuff only with him.

  A 116-page dead-end file to take to the Hollywood squad--his own case, dead for now.

  And his major case--pages and pages he kept checking oven. Dick Stens' case: nails in Ed Exley's coffin. He got goose bumps just saying the words.

  The Nite Owl case.

  Starting in on the Janeway job brought it back: the Duke Cathcart/smut connection, evidence withheld, insider stuff to fuck Exley. Timing was against him then: he didn't have the smarts to pursue it, the niggers escaped, Exley gunned them down. The Nite Owl case was closed--the weird side bits around it forgotten. Years passed; he went back to the Janeway snuff, discovered a string. And little Kathy made him think Nite Owl, Nite Owl, Nite Owl.

  Brainwork.

  Back in '53, Dwight Gilette and Cindy Benavides--Kathy Janeway K.A.'s--told him a guy who came on like Duke Cathcart was talking up muscling Cathcart's pimp business. What "pimp business"?--Duke had only two skags in his stable, but he had been talking up going into the smut biz--at first it sounded like a pipe dream coming from a major-league pipe dreamer--but it got validated when the Englekling brothers came forward and told their story of Cathcart approaching them with a deal: they'd print the smut, he'd distribute it, they'd approach Mickey Cohen for financing.

  Cut to facts:

  _He_ was inside Duke's pad post--Nite Owl. It was tidied up and print-wiped; Duke's clothes had been gone through. The San Bernardino Yellow Pages were ruffled--the pages for printing shops especially. Pete and Bar Englekling owned a printshop in San Berdoo; Nite Owl victim Susan Nancy Lefferts was originally from San Berdoo.

  Cut to the coroner's report:

  The examining pathologist based his identification of Cathcart's body on two things: dental plate _fragments_ cross-checked against Cathcart's prison dental records and the "D.C." monogrammed sports jacket the stiff was wearing. The plate fragments were standard California prison issue--any ex-con who'd done time in the state penal system could have plastic like that in his mouth.

  Cut to his insider skinny:

  Kathy Janeway mentioned a "cute" scar on Duke's chest. There was no mention of that scar anywhere in Doc Layman's autopsy report--and Cathcart's chest was not obliterated by shotgun pellets. A final kicker: the Nite Owl stiff was measured at 5 '8"; Cathcart's prison measurement chart listed him at 5 '9¼".

  Conclusion:

  A Cathcart impersonator was killed at the Nite Owl.

  Cut to:

  Smut.

  Cindy Benavides said Duke was getting ready to push it; Ad Vice was investigating smut back then--he'd read through Squad 4's reports--all the men reported no leads, Russ Millard died, the fuck book gig fell by the wayside. The Englekling brothers told their story of Duke Cathcart's smut approach, how they visited Mickey Cohen in prison, how he refused to bankroll the deal. They thought Cohen ordered the Nite Owl snuffs Out of batshit moral convictions--a ridiculous idea--but what if some kind of Nite Owl plot got started with the Mick? Exley submitted a report that said he and Bob Gallaudet talked up that theory, but the jigs escaped around then--and the Nite Owl got pinned on them.

  Cut to:

  His theory.

  What if Cohen told some prison punk about the Cathcart/Englekling plan--or his man Davey Goldman did? What if the punk got paroled, talked up crashing Duke's stable while he was really just shoring up juice for his Duke impersonation? What if he killed Duke, stole some of his clothes and ended up at the Nite Owl by chance--because Duke frequented the place, or more likely--_as part of some kind of criminal rendezvous that went bad, the killers leaving, coming back with shotguns, blasting the Cathcart impersonator and five innocent bystanders to make it look like a robbery?_

  Flaw in his theory so far:

  He'd checked McNeil parole records: only Negroes, Latins and white men too large or two small to be the Cathcart impersonator were released between the time of the Cohen-- Englekling brothers meeting and the Nite Owl. But--Cohen could have talked up the Cathcart smut proposal, word could have leaked to the outside, the impersonation could have been four or five times fucking removed.

  Theories on top of theories, theories that proved he had the brains to call himself a detective:

  Say the Nite Owl snuffs came out of smut intrigue. That meant the niggers were innocent, the real killers planted the shotguns in Ray Coates' car--which meant that the purple Merc seen outside the Nite Owl was a coincidence--the killers couldn't have known that three spooks were recently seen discharging shotguns in Griffith Park and would rank as natural first suspects. Somehow the killers found Coates' car before the LAPD--and planted the shotguns, print-wiped. It could have happened a half dozen ways.

  1. Coates, in jail, could have told his lawyer where the car was stashed; the killers or their front man could have approached him for the information-or could have coerced him into making Coates talk.

  2. The jigs could have spilled the location to one of their fellow inmates--maybe a planted inmate in with the killers.

  3. His favorite, because it was simplest: the killers were smarter than the LAPD, did their own garage search, checked out garages behind deserted houses first--while the police went at it in grids.

  Or the spooks told other inmates, who got relcased and got approached by the killers; or--unlikely--a cop finger man told them how the block search was breaking down. Impossible to check it all out: the Hall of Justice Jail destroyed its 1935--55 records to make way for more storage space.

  Or the jigs really were guilty.

  Or it was some other bunch of boogies riding around, blasting the air in Griffith Park, killing six people at the Nite Owl. Their 1948--50 Ford/Chevy/Merc was never located because the purple paint job was homemade, never listed on a DMV form.

  Brainwork from a guy who never thought he had much of a brain--and he didn't make a shine gang for the snuffs, because--

  The Englekling brothers sold their printshop mid-'54, then dropped off the face of the earth. Two years ago, he issued a "Whereabouts" bulletin: no results, no positive results on the cadaver bulletins he'd been tracking statewide: zilch on the brothers, no stiffs that might be the real Duke Cathcart. And-- six months ago, following up in San Berdoo, he got a hot lead.

  He found a San Berdoo townie who'd seen Susan Nancy Lefferts with a man matching Duke Cathcart's description--two weeks before the Nite Owl killings. He showed him some Cathcart mugshots; the man said, "Close, but no cigar." The Nite Owl forensic had Susan Nancy "flailing" to touch the man sitting at the next table: Duke Cathcart, really the impersonator, supposedly unknown to her. Why were they sitting at _different tables?_ The kicker: he tried to interview Sue Lefferts' mother, a chance to run the boyfriend by her. She refused to talk to him.

  Why?

  Bud packed up: mementoes, ten pounds of paper. Stalemates for now--no new whore leads, the Nite Owl dead until he braced Mickey Cohen. Out to the elevator--adios, Homicide.

  Ed Exley walked by staring.

  He knows about Inez and me.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Stakeout: Hank's Ranch Market, 52nd and Central. A sign above the door: "Welfare Checks Cashed." January 3, relief day--check-cashers shooting craps on the sidewalk. Surveillance Squad 5 got a tip-some anonymous ginch said her boyfriend and his buddy were going to take the market off, she was pissed at the boyfriend for porking her sister. Jack in the point car, watching the door, Sergeant John Petievich parked on 52--scowling like he wanted to kill something.

  Lunch: Fritos, straight vodka. Jack yawned, stretched, cut odds: Aragon vs. Pimentel, what Ellis Loew wanted--he was supposed to meet him at a political soiree tonight. The vodka burned his stomach; he had to piss wicked bad.

  Horn toots--his signal. Petievich pointed to the sidewalk. Two white men entered the market.

  Jack walked across the street. Petievich walked over. A frame on the doorway, a look in. The robbers at the checkstand, backs to the door--guns out, spare hands full of money.

  No proprietor. No customers. A squint down the far aisle-- blood and brains on the wall. SILENCER. BACK DOOR MAN. Jack shot the heisters in the back.

  Petievich screamed; back door footsteps; Jack fired blind, chased. Bottles broke over his head: blind shots, silencer rounds--no noise, muffled thwaps. Down the far aisle, two dead winos, a door closing. Petievich fired, blew the door off--a man sprinted across the alley. Jack emptied his piece; the man vaulted a fence. Shouts from the sidewalk; crapshooters cheering. Jack reloaded, jumped the fence, hit a backyard. A Doberman jumped at him, snarling, snapping teeth in his face--Jack shot him point-blank. The dog belched blood; Jack heard shots, saw the fence explode.

  Two bluesuits hit the yard running. Jack dropped his gun; they fired anyway--wide--blowing out fence pickets. Jack put his hands up. "Police officer! Police officer! Policeman!"

  They came up slow, frisked him--peach-fuzz rookies. The taller kid found his ID. "Hey, Vincennes. You used to be some kind of hotshot, didn't you?"

  Jack cold-cocked him--a knee to the nuts. The kid went dqwn; the other kid gawked.

  Jack went looking for a place to drink.

o        o          o

  He found a juke joint, ordered a line of shots. Two drinks killed his shakes; two more made him a toastmaster.

  To the men I just killed: sorry, I'm really better at shooting unarmed civilians. I'm being squeezed into retirement, so I thought I'd 86 a couple of real bad guys before I capped my twenty.

  To my wife: you thought you married a hero, but you grew up and learned you were wrong. Now you want to go to law school and be a lawyer like Daddy and Ellis. No sweat on the money: Daddy bought the house, Daddy upgrades your marriage, Daddy will pay for tuition. When you read the paper and see that your husband drilled two evil robbers, you'll think they're the first notches on his gun. Wrong--in '47 dope crusader Jack blasted two innocent people, the big secret he almost wants to spill just to get some life kicking back into his marriage.

  Jack downed three more shots. He went where he always went when with a certain amount of shit in his system--back to '53 and smut.

  He felt safe on the blackmail: his depositions for insurance, the Hudgens snuff buried--_Hush-Hush_ resurrected it, got nowhere. Patchett and Bracken never approached him--they had the carbon of Sid's Big V file, kept their end of the bargain. He heard Lynn and Bud White were still an item; call the brainy whore and Patchett memories--bad news from that bad bloody spring. What drove him was the smut.

  He kept it in a safe-deposit box. He knew it was there, knew it excited him--knew that loving it would trash his marriage. He threw himself into the marriage, building walls to keep them safe from that spring. A string of sober days helped; the marriage helped. Nothing he did changed things--Karen just learned who he was.

  She saw him muscle Deuce Perkins; he said "nigger" in front of her parents. She figured out his press exploits were lies. She saw him drunk, pissed off. He hated her friends; his one friend--Miller Stanton--dropped out of sight when he blew _Badge of Honor_. He got bored with Karen, ran to the smut, went crazy with it.

  He tried to ID the posers again--still no go. He went to Tijuana, bought other fuck books--no go. He went looking for Christine Bergeron, couldn't find her, put out teletypes that got him bupkis. No way to have the real thing--he decided to fake it.

  He bought hookers, shook down call girls. He fixed them up to look like the girls in his books. He had them three and four at a pop, chains of bodies on quilts. He costumed them, choreographed them. He aped the pictures, took his own pictures, recaptured; sometimes he thought of the blood pix and got scared: perfect matches to murder mutilations.

  Real women never thrilled him like the pictures did; fear kept him from going to Fleur-de-Lis--straight to the source. He couldn't figure out Karen's fear--why she didn't leave him.

  A last drink--bad thoughts adieu.

  Jack cleaned up, walked back to his car. No hubcaps, broken wiper blades. Crime scene tape around Hank's Ranch Market; two black-and-whites in the lot. No reprimand note on his windshield--the vandals probably stole it.

o        o          o

  He hit the bash at full swing: Ellis Loew, a suite packed with Republican bigshots. Women in cocktail gowns; men in dark suits. The Big V: chinos, a sport shirt sprayed with dog blood.

  Jack flagged a waiter, grabbed a martini off his tray. Framed pictures on the wall caught his eye.

  Political progress: _Harvard Law Review_, the '53 election, a howler shot: Loew telling the press the Nite Owl killers confessed before they escaped. Jack laughed, sprayed gin, almost choked on his olive. Behind him: "You used to dress a bit more nicely."

  Jack turned around. "I used to be some kind of hotshot."

  "Do you have an excuse for your appearance?"

  "Yeah, I killed two men today."

  "I see. Anything else?"

  "Yeah, I shot them in the back, plugged a dog and took off before my superior officers showed up. And here's a news flash: I've been drinking. Ellis, this is getting stale, so let's get to it. Who do you want me to touch?"

  "Jack, lower your voice."

  "What is it, boss? The Senate or the statehouse?"

  "Jack, it's not the time to discuss this."

  "Sure it is. Tell true. You're gearing up for the '60 elections." Loew, on the QT. "All right, it's the Senate. I did have some favors to ask, but your current condition precludes my asking them. We'll talk when you're in better shape."

  An audience now: the whole suite. "Come on, I'm dying to run bag for you. Who do I shake down first?"

  "_Sergeant, lower your voice_."

  Raise that voice. "Cocksucker, I shit where you breathe. I put Bill McPherson in the tank for you, I cold-cocked him and put him in bed with that colored girl, I fucking deserve to know who you want me to put the screws to next."

  Loew, a hoarse whisper. "Vincennes, you're through."

  Jack tossed gin in his face. "God, I fucking hope so."

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  ". . . and we're more than the moral exemplars that Chief Parker spoke of the other day. We are the dividing line between the old police work and the new, the old system of promotion through patronage and enforcement through intimidation and a new emerging system: the elite police corps that impartially asserts its authority in the name of a stern and unbiased justice, that punishes its own with a stern moral vigor should they prove duplicitous to the higher moral standards an elite corps demands of its members. And, finally, we are the protectors of the public image of the Los Angeles Police Department. Know that when you read interdepartmental complaints filed against your brother officers and feel the urge to be forgiving. Know that when I assign you to investigate a man you once worked with and liked. Know that our business is stern, absolute justice, whatever the price."

  Ed paused, looked at his men: twenty-two sergeants, two lieutenants. "Nuts and bolts now, gentlemen. Under my predecessor, Lieutenant Phillips and Lieutenant Stinson supervised field investigations autonomously. As of now, I will assume direct field command, with Lieutenant Phillips and Lieutenant Stinson serving as my execs on an alternating basis. Incoming complaints and information requests will be routed through my office first, I'll read the material and make my assignments accordingly. Sergeant Kleckner and Sergeant Fisk will serve as my personal assistants and will meet with me every morning at 0730. Lieutenant Stinson and Lieutenant Phillips, please meet me in my office in one hour to discuss my assuming command of your ongoing investigations. Gentlemen, you're dismissed."

  The meeting dispersed in silence; the muster room emptied. Ed replayed his speech, hitting key phrases. "Absolute justice" hit with Inez Soto's voice.

  Dump ashtrays, straighten chairs, tidy the bulletin board. Unfurl the flags by the lectern, check them for dust. Back to his speech, his father's voice: "Duplicitous to the higher moral standards an elite corps demands of its members." Two days ago, his speech would have been the truth. Inez Soto's speech made it a lie.

  Flags, gold-fringed. Gold-plated opportunism: he killed those men out of a weak man's rage. As the Nite Owl killers they gave the rage meaning: absolute justice boldly taken. He twisted the meaning to support what the public was telling him: you're L.A.'s greatest hero, you're going to the top and beyond. Bud White's revenge, the man too stupid to grasp it: a simple cuckold accompanied by a woman's few words had him treading lies at the top, thrashing for a way to make his stale glory real.

  Ed walked into his office: clean, neat--no order to secure. Complaint forms on his desk--he sat down, worked.

  Jack Vincennes in big trouble.

  1/3/58: while on a Surveillance Detail stakeout, Vincennes shot and killed two armed robbers--gunmen who had murdered three people at a southside market. Vincennes gave chase to a third gunman/robber, lost him, was approached by two patrolmen who did not know he was a police officer. The patrolmen fired at Vincennes, assuming him to be a member of the robbery gang; Vincennes dropped his gun and allowed himself to be frisked--then assaulted one of the officers and vacated the crime scene before Homicide and the coroner arrived. The third suspect remained at large; Vincennes went to a political gathering honoring D.A. Ellis Loew, his brother-in-law by marriage. Presumed to be drunk, he verbally abused Loew and threw a drink in his face--in full view of the guests.

  Ed skimmed Vincennes' personnel file. A 5/58 pension securement date--goodbye, Trashcan Jack--you were close. Stacks of his Narcotics Squad reports: thorough, detailed to the point of being padded. Between the lines: Vincennes had a hard-on for minor dope violators--especially Hollywood celebrities and jazz musicians--substantiating an old rumor: he called _Hush-Hush_ Magazine to be in on his gravy rousts. Vincennes was transferred to Administrative Vice as part of the Bloody Christmas shake-up; another stack of reports: bookmaking and liquor infraction operations, no zeal, plenty of verbal padding. Ad Vice assignment into the spring of '53: Russ Millard commanding the division, a pornography investigation running concurrent with the Nite Owl. And a _big_ anomaly: assigned to trace smut, Vincennes repeatedly reported no leads, commented that the other men on the assignment were coming up empty, twice offered the opinion that the investigation should be dropped.

  Antithetical Jack V. behavior.

  Smut brushed shoulders with the Nite Owl.

  Ed thought back.

  The Englekling brothers, Duke Cathcart, Mickey Cohen. Smut dismissed as a viable Nite Owl lead--three dead Negroes, case closed.

  Ed read the file again. Years of padded reports, one assignment bereft of paper. Vincennes returned to Narco in July '53--he went back to his old ways, continued them straight through to the end of his duty with Surveillance.

  Big-time anomaly.

  Coinciding with the Nite Owl.

  Spring '53, another connection: Sid Hudgens was murdered then--unsolved. Ed hit the intercom.

  "Yes, Captain?"

  "Susan, find out who besides Sergeant John Vincennes was assigned to the Fourth Squad at Administrative Vice in April of 1953. Do that, then locate them."

o        o          o

  A half hour for results. Sergeant George Henderson, Officer Thomas Kifka retired; Sergeant Lewis Stathis working Bunco. Ed called his C.O.; Stathis walked in ten minutes later.

  A burly man--tall, stooped. Nervous--an I.A. bracing out of nowhere was a spooker. Ed pointed him to a chair. Stathis said, "Sir, this is about . . ."

  "Sergeant, this has nothing to do with you. This has to do with an officer you worked Ad Vice with."

  "Captain, my Ad Vice tour was years ago."

  "I know, late '51 through the summer of '53. You transferred out just as I rotated in on my floater assignment. Sergeant, how closely did you work with Jack Vincennes?"

  Stathis smiled. Ed said, "Why are you grinning?"

  "Well, I read in the paper that Vincennes juked these two heist guys, and talk around the Bureau has it that he bugged out on the scene unannounced. That's a big infraction, so I was smiling 'cause it figured he'd be the Ad Vice guy you'd be interested in."

  "I see. And did you work closely with him?"

  Stathis shook his head. "Jack was strictly the single-o type. You know, the beat of a different drummer. Sometimes we worked the same general assignments, but that was it."

  "Your squad worked a pornography investigation in the spring of'53, do you recall that?"

  "Yeah, it was a colossal waste of time. Dirty skin books, a waste of time."

  "You yourself reported no leads."

  "Yeah, and neither did Trashcan or the other guys. Russ Millard got co-opted to that Nite Owl thing, and the skin book caper fell through."

  "Do you recall Vincennes acting strangely during that time?"

  "Not really. I remember he only showed up at the squadroom at odd times and that him and Russ Millard didn't like each other. Like I said, Vincennes was a loner. He didn't pal around with the guys on the squad."

  "Do you recall Millard making specific queries of the squad when two printshop operators came forward with smut information?"

  Stathis nodded. "Yeah, something to do with the Nite Owl that didn't pan out. We all told old Russ that those skin books could not be traced hell or high water."

  One hunch going dry. "Sergeant, the Department was running a fever with the Nite Owl back then. Can you recall how Vincennes reacted to it? Any little thing out of the ordinary?"

  Stathis said, "Sir, can I be blunt?"

  "Of course."

  "Well, then I'll tell you that I always figured Vincennes was a cheap-shot cop on the take somehow. Put that aside, I remember he was sort of nervous around the time of the skin book job. On the Nite Owl, I'd say he was bored with it. He was in on the arrest of those colored guys, he was there when our guys found the car and the shotguns, and he still seemed bored by it."

  Coming on again--no facts, just instincts. "Sergeant, think. Vincennes' behavior around the time of the Nite Owl and the pornography investigation. Anything out of the ordinary with him. _Think_."

  Stathis shrugged. "Maybe one thing, but I don't think it amounts to--"

  "Tell me anyway."

  "Well, back then Vincennes had the cubicle next to mine, and sometimes I could hear him pretty good. I was at my desk and heard part of a conversation, him and Dudley Smith."

  "And?"

  "And Smith asked Vincennes to put a tail on Bud White. He said White'd gotten personally involved in a hooker homicide and he didn't want him doing nothing rash."

  Skin pricldes. "What else did you hear?"

  "I heard Vincennes agree, and the rest of it was garbled."

  "This was during the Nite Owl investigation?"

  "Yes, sir. Right in the middle of it."

  "Sergeant, do you remember Sid Hudgens, the scandal sheet man, being killed around that time?"

  "Yeah, an unsolved."

  "Do you recall Vincennes talking about it?"

  "No, but the rumor was that him and Hudgens were buddies."

  Ed smiled. "Sergeant, thank you. This was off the record, but I don't want you to repeat our conversation. Do you understand?"

  Stathis got up. "I won't, but I feel bad about Vincennes. I heard he's topping out his twenty in a few months. Maybe he vamoosed 'cause shooting those heist guys got to him."

  Ed said, "Good day, Sergeant."

o        o          o

  Something old, wrong.

  Ed sat with his door open. Gold-braided flags just outside-- opportunities knocked.

  Vmcennes might have dirt on Bud White.

  Instincts: Trash running scared in the spring of '53.

  Connect the "skin-book caper" to the Nite Owl.

  Inez Soto's indictment--he killed three innocent men.

  If he cut Vincennes a break on his l.A. investigation--

  Ed hit the intercom. "Susan, get me District Attorney Loew."

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Mickey Cohen said, "I got my own problems to worry about. The fershtunkener Nite Owl case and fershtunkener dirty books I don't know from the Bible, another book I never read. That rebop bored me five years ago, now it is an even further distance from hunger. I got my own problems, such as look at my poor baby."

  Bud looked. A raggedy-assed bulldog by the Mickster's fireplace--wheezing, his tail in a splint. Cohen said, "That is Mickey Cohen, Jr., my heir who is not long for this canine world. A bomb attempt in November he survived, though a goodly number of my Sy Devore suits did not. His poor tail has remained steadily infected and his appetite is dyspeptic. Cops resurrecting old grief is not good for his health."

  "Mr. Cohen--"

  "I like a man who addresses me with proper decorum. What did you say your name was again?"

  "Sergeant White."

  "Sergeant White then, I will tell you there is no end to the grief in my life. I am like Jesus your goy savior carrying the weight of the world on his back. Back in prison these fershtunkener goons attack me and my man Davey Goldman, Davey gets his brains scrambled, gets paroled and starts walking around in public with his shlong hanging out, it's big, I don't blame him for advertising, but the Beverly Hills cops ain't so enlightened and now he's doing ninety days observation at the Camarillo nut bin. As if that is not enough grief for your yiddisher Jesus to undergo, then feature that while I was in prison some colleagues looking after my interests were bumped off by persons unknown. And now my old boys won't form back together with me. My God, Kikey T., Lee Vachss, Johnny Stompanato--"

  Kill the tirade. "I know Johnny Stomp."

  Cohen hit the roof. "Ferstunkener Johnny, Judas from the best-selling Bible is his middle name! Lana Turner is his Jezebel and not his Mary Magdalene, his cock leads him to grovel for her like a dowsing rod. Granted, he is even better hung than Davey G., but my blessed Jesus I took him away from being a two-bit extortionist and made him my bodyguard, and now he refuses to re-enlist, he'd rather nosh grease at Kikey's fucking deli and hobnob with Deuce Perkins, who I have it on good authority plays hide the salami with members of the canine persuasion. Did you say your name was White?"

  "That's right, Mr. Cohen."