A lie--Perkins' rap sheet said different. "So maybe I'm confused. I know you guys are tight with Lee Vachss, and I heard him and Deuce are tight."

  Kikey laughed--too stagy. "What a yuck. Johnny, I think Wendell here is really confused."

  Stomp said, "Oil and water, those two. Tight? What a howl."

  _Standing up for Vachss for no reason_. "You guys are the howl. I figured you'd ask me what the grief was right off."

  Kikey pushed his plate aside. "It occur to you we just don't care?"

  "Yeah, but you guys love to shmooz and milk the grapevine."

  "So shmooz."

  A rumor: Kikey beat a guy to death for calling him a yid. "I'll shmooz, it's a nice day and I got nothing better to do than hobnob with a greasy wop and a fat yid."

  Abe ho-ho-ho'd, cuffed his arm oh-you-kid. "You're a pisser. So what do you want Deuce for?"

  Bud cuffed him back hard--"None of your fucking business, Jewboy"--throw a change-up to Johnny. "What are you doing now that Mickey's out?"

  Tap, tap, tap----a pinky ring on a bottle of Schlitz. "Nothing you'd be interested in. I got things contained, so don't you worry. What are _you_ doing?"

  "I'm on the Nite Owl reopening."

  Johnny tap-tapped too hard--his bottle almost tipped. Kikey, working on pale. "You don't think Deuce Perkins . .

  Stompanato: "Come on, Abe. Deuce for the Nite Owl, what a howl."

  Bud said, "I gotta piss," walked to the bathroom. He closed the door, counted to ten, opened it a crack. The shitbirds spieling full blast--Abe wiping his face with a napkin. Let the pieces fit in.

  Hink: Deuce for the Nite Owl.

  Jack V. spotted Vachss, Stomp, Kikey and Perkins at a party--maybe a year pre--Nite Owl.

  A Mobster Squad roust, a snitch off Joe Sifakis: _three-man_ trigger gangs clipping Cohen franchise hoods, maverick hoods. The Victory Motel buzzing hard.

  Bud grabbed the piece, dropped it, grabbed it.

  "Contain."

  Dudley's favorite big word--"containment."

  His motel pitch: "containing," "profit dispensation," "obstreperous Italian you've dealt with in the past"--Johnny Stomp an old snitch who hated him. Dud hot for his "full disclosure"; the Lamar Hinton roust--a shakedown for Nite Owl information, Dot Rothstein there, Kikey Teitlebaum's cousin--

  Bud washed his face, walked back calm. Stomp said, "Have a good one?"

  "Yeah, and you're right. I want Deuce for some old warrants, but I got a hunch on the Nite Owl."

  Calm Johnny: "Oh, yeah?"

  Calm Kikey: "Some new shvoogies, right? All I know's what I read in the papers."

  Bud: "Maybe, but if it wasn't some new niggers, then that purple car by the Nite Owl was a plant. Take care, guys. If you see Deuce, tell him to call me at the Bureau."

  Calm Johnny tap-tap-tapped.

  Calm Kikey coughed, popped sweat.

  Calm Bud, not so calm: out to the car, around the corner to a pay phone. The P.C. Bell police number, one long fucking wait.

  "Uh, yes, who's requesting?"

  "Sergeant White, LAPD. It's a trace job."

  "For when, Sergeant?"

  "_For now_. It's a homicide priority, private lines and pay phones at a restaurant. _It's now_."

  "One second, please."

  Transfer click-click-clicks--a new woman. "Sergeant, what exactly do you need?"

  No Calm Bud. "Abe's Noshery at Pico and Veteran. All calls out on all phones for the next fifteen goddamn minutes. Lady, don't hump me on this."

  "We can't initiate actual traces, Officer."

  "Just who the calls are to, goddamn it."

  "Well, if it _is_ a homicide priority. What is your number now?"

  Bud read off the phone. "GRanite 48112."

  Harumph. "Fifteen minutes then. And next time allow us more operating leeway."

  Bud hung up--Dudley Dudley Dudley Dudley Dudley--hard time cut off by _brrrinnngg_. He grabbed the phone, fumbled it, cradled it. "Yeah?"

  "Two calls. One to DUnkirk 32758--a Miss Dot Rothstein holds that number. The second to AXminster 46811, the residence of a Mr. Dudley L. Smith."

  Bud dropped the receiver. The clerk babbled from someplace safe and calm that he'd never see again--no Lynn, no safety in a badge.

  Captain Dudley Liam Smith for the Nite Owl.

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  Jack Vincennes confessed.

  He confessed to knocking up a girl at the St. Anatole's Orphan Home, to killing Mr. and Mrs. Harold J. Scoggins. He confessed to tank-jobbing Bill McPherson with a hot little nigger girl, to planting dope on Charlie Parker, to shaking down hopheads for _Hush-Hush_ Magazine. He tried to jerk out of bed and raise his hands to form the Stations of the Cross. He babbled something like hub rachmones, Mickey, and bump bump bump bump the cute train. He confessed to beating up junkies, to running bag for Ellis Loew. He begged his wife to forgive him for fucking whores who looked like women in dirty picture books. He confessed that he loved dope and was unfit to love Jesus.

  Karen Vincennes stood by weeping: she couldn't listen, she had to listen. Ed tried to shoo her out--she wouldn't let him. He called the Bureau from outside Arrowhead; Fisk gave him the word: Pierce Patchett shot and killed last night, his mansion torched, burned to the ground. Fireman had discovered Vincennes in the backyard--smoke inhalation, rips in his bulletproof vest. They got him to Central Receiving, a doctor took a blood sample. The results: Trashcan on a test flight, a heroin/antipsychotic drug compound. He'd live, he'd be fine--when the OD in his system flushed out.

  A nurse swabbed Vincennes' face; Karen fretted Kleenex. Ed checked Fisk's memo: "Inez Soto called. No info on R.D. $ dealings. R.D. suspicious of queries?? ?--she was cryptic--D.W."

  Ed crumpled it, tossed it. Vincennes went in barefoot--while he was shacked with Lynn. Somebody killed Patchett, left them both to burn.

  Burned like Exley father and son--Bud White holding the torch.

  He couldn't look at Karen.

  "Captain, I've got something."

  Fisk in the hallway. Ed walked over, led him away from the door. "What is it?"

  "Nort Layman completed the autopsy. Patchett's cause of death was five .30-30 slugs fired from two different rifles. Ray Pinker ran ballistics tests and came up with a match to an old Riverside County bulletin. May of '55, unsolved with no leads, I checked. Two men gunned down outside a tavern. It looked like a gangland job."

  All coming down to the heroin. "That's all you've got?"

  "No. Bud White tore up a dope den in Chinatown and beat three Chinamen half to death. He came in asking questions, badged them and went crazy. One of them ID'd his personnel photo. Thad Green called l.A. on it, and I caught the squeal. Pickup order, sir? I know you want him and Chief Green said it's your call."

  Ed almost laughed. "No, no pickup order."

  "Sir?"

  "I said no, so cut it off there. And you and Kleckner do this for me. Contact Miller Stanton, Max Pelts, Timmy Valburn and Billy Dieterling. Have them come to my office tonight at 8:00 for questioning. Tell them I'm the investigating officer, and if they want no publicity, then bring no lawyers. And get me Homicide's file on the old Loren Atherton case. Seal it, Sergeant. I don't want you to look at it."

  "Sir..."

  Ed turned away. Karen in the doorway, dry-eyed. "Do you think Jack did those things?"

  "Yes."

  "He musm't know that I know. Will you promise not to tell him?"

  Ed nodded, looked in the room. The Big V begged for communion.

CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  A file room at the main DMV-- boxes stacked shoulder-high. A confirmation search--a riff on Johnny and Kikey's last hink. Riff in, out, back, around--he was so high he could think it through and prowl registration records at the same time.

  Make Stomp, Teitlebaum and Lee Vachss for the Nite Owl triggers; make them the shooter gang bumping upstart mobsters and Cohen franchise holders. Deuce Perkins was part of the gang--the others didn't know he beat hookers to death--they'd consider it amateur shit, wouldn't tolerate it. Dudley was the leader--he couldn't be anything else. All his job offer stuff was a try at recruiting him; the Lamar Hinton roust was Dud frosting out loose ends on the Patchett side of things--make Patchett and Smith some kind of K.A.'s, make Hinton dead, Breuning and Carlisle part of the gang. "Contain," "Contained," "Containment," "Profit Dispensation." Call it Dudley trying to control the L.A. rackets--and pin the Nite Owl on a new bunch of jigs.

  Bud tore through boxes: auto registrations, early April '53. Schoolboy thinkm  he figured the car by the Nite Owl was a plant; the shotguns in Coates' car, the shells in Griffith Park, both plants--the killers followed the case, got lucky on the Merc, found some boogies to take the heat. Wrong--LAPD conspirators were in on the job. They read crime reports, got hipped to some joyriding spooks firing shotguns--lay the onus on them-- they figured the arresting officers would kill them, case closed.

  So they got themselves a car that matched the crime report description. They made sure it was spotted near the Nite Owl. They wouldn't steal a car--cops wouldn't risk a late night roust. They didn't buy a purple car--they bought a different colored one and painted it.

  Bud kept working. No logic to the file mess: Mercs, Chevies, Caddies, L.A., Sacramento, Frisco, whoever registered the car would've used a phony name. One luck-out: the registers' race, DOB and physical stats listed on cards attached to the initial purchase carbons. Facts to eliminate against, like he learned in school: '48--'50 Mercs, Southern California purchasers, stats that matched to Dudley, Stomp, Vachss, Teitlebaum, Perkins, Carlisle and Breuning. Hours of digging, a pile inches thick--then a strange one that felt warm.

  1948 primer-gray Merc coupe, purchased April 10, 1953. Register: Margaret Louise March, W.F., DOB 7/23/18, brown and brown, 5 '9", 215 lbs. Register's address: 1804 East Oxford, Los Angeles. Phone number: NOrmandie 32758.

  Warm to scalding--Fat Dot Rothstein's specs. Oxford ran north-south--not east-west. The call to Dot from the Noshery-- DU-32758--the dumb dyke tacked her own number onto a different exchange.

  And bought herself some purple paint.

  Bud whooped, punched the air, kicked boxes. Two cases made in one day--if anyone believed him. All dressed up and no one to kill. Circumstantial Dudley evidence--no hard proof. Dudley too well placed to fall, nobody who cared like he did.

  Except Exley.

CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  A stakeout on the house he grew up in. He couldn't go in and question his father; he couldn't ask for his help. He couldn't tell the man he confided secrets to a woman--and gave a brutal enemy the means to patricide. He brought the Atherton file with him--there was nothing in it he didn't already know, the man who made the smut and killed Sid Hudgens was intrinsic to the Atherton murders, maybe the killer himself--truths Preston Exley would dispute out of pride. He couldn't go in; he couldn't stop thinking. He counted memories instead.

  His father bought the house for his mother; it was really just a sop to his pride--the Exleys flee the middle class grandly. They never had Christmas lights on the lawn--Preston Exley said it was lowlife. Thomas fell off balconies--and had the style not to cry. His father threw him a "back from the war" party--only the mayor, the City Council and LAPD men who could further his career were invited.

  Art De Spain walked to his car, looking frail, one arm bandaged. Ed watched him drive off, his father's man, his Dutch uncle. Memory: Art said he wasn't cut out to be a detective.

  The house loomed big and cold. Ed drove back to the hospital.

o        o          o

  Trash was up, giving Fisk a statement. Ed watched from the doorway.

  ". . . and I was playing off Exley's script. I don't remember exactly what I said, but Patchett pulled out a gun and shot me. That shit piece Exley gave me jammed, and Patchett slammed me with a hypo. Then I heard shots and 'No, Abe, no, Lee, no.' And now you know as much as I do."

  From the hall, loud: "Abe Teitlebaum, Johnny Stompanato and Lee Vachss. They did the Nite Owl. Throw in Deuce Perkins as part of the gang and get ready to shit when I tell you who else I got."

  Ed smelled his sweat, his breath. White pushed him inside-- firm, not too rough. "Put our stuff aside for a minute. Did you hear what I said?"

  The names registered: gang muscle, a not-bad line to HEROIN. 'White looked insane--disheveled, a zealot. Fisk said, "Sir, do you want me to . .

  Ed moved his shoulders--White dropped his hands right on cue. "Two minutes, _Captain_."

  Scared--_be a captain_. "Duane, go get yourself some coffee. White, get my interest before I ream you for the Chinamen."

  Fisk walked out. Ed said, "Jack, you stay. White, you keep my interest."

  White closed the door. Disheveled: soiled clothes, inksmudged hands. "Good I heard the radio on you, Trashcan. I didn't know you were here, I mighta tried to do it all myself."

  Vincennes, on the bed looking queasy. "Do _what?_ Abe, Lee. You make Teitlebaum and Vachss for Patchett, spell it out."

  Ed: "You look Crim 101, White. Make like you're writing an occurrence chronology."

  White smiled--pure kamikaze. "I been tracking a string of hooker killings for years. It started with this girl Kathy Janeway. She got snuffed back in '53, right around the Nite Owl. She was Duke Cathcart's girlfriend."

  Ed nodded. "I know that story. I.A. ran a personal on you when you passed the sergeant's exam."

  "Oh, yeah? What you don't know is that a few years ago my case broke. I thought my killer was Spade Cooley--his band was in all the hooker snuff cities on the DODs. I was wrong. Cooley ratted off the real killer--Burt Arthur Perkins."

  Vincennes spoke up. "I buy Deuce as a woman killer. He's wrong to the core."

  White said, "You should know, 'cause Cooley said he was pals with Johnny Stompanato, and back around '52 you told me you rousted him hanging out with Johnny Stomp, Kikey T. and Lee Vachss. Cooley told me Johnny and Deuce were tight, so I went looking for Johnny."

  Ed said, "All right, so you went to Stompanato."

  White lit a cigarette. "Nix. Now I tell you that Dudley Smith has been using me for strongarm jobs on the Mobster Squad going back years. You know how he talks? 'Containment,' that's one of his favorite words. Contain crime, contain this, contain that. He's been beating around the bush about offering me outside work, and the other night he said I could be useful keeping the 'obstreperous Italian' that's afraid of me in line. Johnny Stomp's afraid of me--he used to snitch for me and I used to muscle him good. You know how Dud's this so-called gangland peacemaker? Well, the other night him, Carlisle and Breuning worked over this guy Lamar Hinton at the Victory, supposedly a Mobster Squad job. Bullshit--all Dudley asked him about was Nite Owl stuff--smut, Pierce Patchett."

  Ed, bug-eyed: this can't be coming. "So you went to Stompanato looking for Perkins."

  "Right. I go to Kike's deli, and Johnny's there with Kikey. I ask Johnny about Deuce, and Johnny's all hiked. Kikey's hinked worse and they both lie and say Deuce is just some bumfuck acquaintance. They deny that Deuce is tight with Lee Vachss, when I know goddamn otherwise. Johnny uses the word 'containment,' which is not a Johnny-type word. Hink all over these guys, and I drop that I'm on the Nite Owl reopening and they almost shit, Deuce for the Nite Owl, ho, ho. I leave, go to a pay phone and have P.C. Bell put a fifteen-minute trace on all calls out of the deli. Two calls--one to Dot Rothstein, Dudley's good pal and Kikey's cousin, one to Dudley's house."

  Vincennes said, "Holy fucking shit." Ed jerked a hand to his gun--wrong--White was a cop. "Give me corroboration."

  White flicked his smoke out the window. "Crim 101. The niggers didn't do it, so Dud and his gang planted a car by the Nite Owl. I went to the DMV and checked April '53 registrations, Caucasians this time. Dot Rothstein bought a '48 Merc, primer gray, on April 10. A phony name, a phony address, but the stupid bitch used the real digits on her own phone number."

  Vincennes looked shell-shocked. Ed reeled in a line so he wouldn't scream DUDLEY. "Right before the Nite Owl I was working late at Hollywood Station. Spade Cooley was playing a retirement party downstairs, and I saw Burt Perkins roaming the halls. Try this theory: Mal Lunceford, ex--LAPD patrolman. Call him the forgotten Nite Owl victim, and remember he worked Hollywood Division for most of his time on the Department. Now, did one of the shooters have a grudge against Lunceford? Was Perkins removing records of it that night at the station? Did the conspirators know that Lunceford was a Nite Owl regular and plan their Cathcart or Cathcart-impersonator hit so that they could clip him too?"

  White answered. "Dudley put me on the Lunceford background check, probably because he thought I'd fuck it up. I checked for old Lunceford F.I.'s and couldn't find a goddamn one. I buy that theory."

  DUDLEY past screaming--Ed held it down. Vincennes: "Fisk told me about Patchett, how he got the Cohen-Dragna summit heroin, how him and this unnamed bad guy who's obviously Dudley were getting ready to push it. Now, I know for a fact that Dud bodyguarded that deal, and there was this rumor floating around years ago--that Dud led this posse that killed this guy Buzz Meeks who heisted the summit. Fisk said that Patchett got most of the white horse that got clouted, some from the Englekling brothers and their father, some from this bad guy who's obviously Dudley. Okay, so what I'm thinking is-could Lunceford have been in on the posse? Was that when Dudley got the dope?"

  White shook his head--new stuff for him. "You fill me in on that, because I got a lead that ties in. Dud was talking up his containment shit, and he said something about keeping the niggers sedated, which sounds like heroin to me."

  Ed said, "Call that done for now. Jack, run with the Goldman-- Van Gelder angle. Put it together with our new leads."

  Trash stood up, steadied himself on the bed rail. "Okay, let's say Davey G. was in with Dudley, Stompanato, Kikey, Vachss and Dot. How any of them could trust a psycho like Deuce I don't know, but fuck it. Anyway, they're all conspiring against Mickey C. White, you don't know this, but Goldman had a bug in Mickey's cell at McNeil. I'm betting Dudley and his friends were in with Davey from the beginning, but fuck it, however it happened, Davey heard the Englekling brothers approach Mickey with Duke Cathcart's smut deal."

  Ed raised a hand. "Chester Yorkin said that the man who brought Patchett the bulk of the heroin--let's assume it's Dudley--had a hard-on for smut and quote 'contacts in South America and pervert mailing lists.' I always wondered about the profit on pornography, and now Dudley's connection makes it seem more feasible."

  Vincennes said, "Let me keep going. Dud worked with the OSS in Paraguay after the war and he ran Ad Vice back in '39 or so, so I know he's got those contacts, but sit on that. Right now we've got Goldman going to Smith and Stompanato with the word on the smut plan. Everybody, especially Dud, likes the idea, and they decide to crash the racket. On his own, a double cross, I don't know, Davey sends Dean Van Gelder, his prison visitor, to talk to Cathcart. Van Gelder decides to crash Duke's prostie racket and the smut gig on his own. He'd been seen by Davey face-to-face, but the outside prison men had never seen him. He figured he looked like Cathcart, so he could impersonate Cathcart and cut his own deal. By the time the impersonation was found out he'd be too far in good with the outside men for Davey to care what he'd done. So Van Gelder moved to San Berdoo to be close to the Englekling brothers. He fell in with Sue Lefferts and snuffed Duke. He knew the names of at least one of the outside men, called them at a pay phone from the Lefferts' house and asked for a meet. He went in tough and suggested a public place, he figured Sue could sit nearby and he'd be safe. One of the outside guys put Lunceford together with the Nite Owl and said let's meet there. Dud or one of his guys approached Patchett right _before_ the Nite Owl and told him to get his loose ends tidied. Patchett didn't know exactly what was gonna happen, but he had Chris Bergeron and her kid and Bobby Inge blow town just as I was starting in on the smut gig for Ad Vice."

  An air-cooled room--Ed felt every word boost the temperature. "Let me throw out a chronology, starting right after Van Gelder as Cathcart contacts the outside men. Now, we know Dudley loves pornography, we know he's been sitting on eighteen pounds of'H' since the Cohen-Dragna deal. Try this theory: he breaks into Cathcart's apartment and finds something that leads him to Patchett, something that includes mention of his chemistry background and his connection to old Dr. Englekling. He goes to Patchett, they strike a deal--develop the heroin, push the smut. He's astounded that Patchett's thinking along the same lines, that he's already got some of the horse from Doc Englekling. Now Dudley wants Cathcart killed, Mal Lunceford silenced for whatever reason--and he wants Patchett terrified. He's a policeman, and he's read about those Negroes discharging shotguns in Griffith Park. He sets up the meet at the Nite Owl, knowing Lunceford will be there, and Jack's right--he was ambiguous, but he told Patchett to get rid of his loose ends. Moving ahead, the investigation goes wider than Dudley thinks it will--because the Negroes don't get killed during their arrest, and they don't confess. He puts White on the Cathcart background check, and he probably _didn't_ know that Perkins killed the Janeway girl, but he wanted White steered away from getting involved on general principles--he wanted him to steer clear of possible Cathcart--Nite Owl connections."

  All eyes on Bud White. The zealot: "Okay, Dudley put me on the Cathcart check because he thought I'd screw up. But I checked out Duke's pad and saw that it was print-wiped, and I figured that somebody had tried on his clothes. The Dudley guys wiped the place, but they didn't touch the phone books, and I could tell that the San Berdoo printshop listings had been looked over. Now, I got a theory. When I was on the Carthcart check, I met Kathy Janeway at this motel out in the valley. Two days later she's raped and killed. When I left the motel I thought I was being tailed, but then I forgot about it. I think the tail was Deuce Perkins. I think Dud put a tail on Cathcart's K.A.'s, just to keep tabs on the investigation, which explains how he's always known so much about all this stuff that I've always kept secret. So Deuce, who's a rape-o shitbird psycho, sees Kathy and goes for her. Maybe Dudley knew he killed her, maybe he didn't. Either way he fucking pays."

  Vincennes lit a cigarette, coughed. "We've got no evidence, but I've got some more stuff to tie in. One, Doc Layman took five .30-30 slugs out of Patchett, and he said they match this gang unsolved in Riverside County. When Davey Goldman was babbling away up in Camarillo, he said something about three triggers. He babbled some other stuff that keeps running through my head, but it doesn't make any sense. Exley, did you listen to that tape I found at McNeil?"

  Ed nodded. "You're right. Nothing salient at all, just a passing mention of some gang hits."

  White: "There's been a bunch of mob unsolveds. I know, 'cause a suspect spilled some tangent stuff on them on a Mobster Squad roust. Always three triggers, Cohen franchise holders and upstart hoods clipped. Easy money: Stompanato, Vachss and Teitlebaum keeping things copacetic for Mickey C's parole. They wanted to keep things chilled for their containment gig and they figured when Mickey got out they'd test the wind and either clip him or use him. My bet's on clip. They had Cohen and Goldman bushwhacked in prison--a pure cross on Davey. Mickey's house got bombed and Mickey lived to tell. They'll clip him before too long and they'll contain real good, 'cause Dud's Mr. Mobster Squad and he's got Parker's fucking--what's the word? mandate?--to keep out-of-town muscle out. Do you fucking believe it?"

  Trash laughed. "Grand, lad, grand. And all the hits were paving the way for Dud to push Patchett's heroin. He got the command on the reopening so he could find some new patsies, and he's set to push the horse. He's got the smut stashed, and he didn't warn Patchett about the investigation because he was already planning to kill him. He didn't touch Lynn Bracken, because he figured Patchett kept her in the dark on all his worst stuff. He let her come in for questioning because he figured she'd stall Exley's part of the investigation."

  Lynn Bracken.

  Ed winced, moved toward the door. "And we still don't know who made the smut and killed Hudgens. Or the Englekling brothers, which doesn't look like a pro job. White, you went up to Gaitsville with Dudley, and he submitted a soft-pedal report on--"

  "It was another psycho job. Heroin lying around, and the killer just left it. He tortured the brothers with chemicals and burned up a bunch of smut negatives with acid solutions. The lab tech said he thought the killer was trying to ID the people in the pictures. The chemistry stuff made me think Patchett, but then I thought he must've already known who the picture people were. I don't really think their heroin ties to our heroin, the brothers were dope peddlers on and off for years. Chemists and dope peddlers, and if Patchett wanted their dope, he would've stolen it. I think the brothers got killed by somebody, I don't know, outside the center of this mess."

  Trash sighed. "_There's no evidence_. Patchett and the whole Englekling family are dead, and Dud probably killed Lamar Hinton. You got nothing at the Fleur-de-Lis drop and White's little grandstand with Stompanato and Teitlebaum means that now Dudley's been alerted and he's taking care of _his_ loose ends. I don't think we've got much of a case."

  Ed thought it through. "Chester Yorkin told me Patchett had a booby-trapped safe outside his house. The house is being guarded now, the West L.A. squad has a team on it. In a day or so, I'll go lift the guards. There might be something in that safe that nails Dudley."

  White said, "So right now, what? No evidence, and Stompanato's leaving for Acapulco today with Lana Turner. What now?"

  Ed opened the door--Fisk was outside drinking coffee. "Duane, get back in touch with Valburn, Stanton, Billy Dieterling and Pelts. Change the meeting to the downtown Statler at 8:00. Call the hotel and set up three suites and call Bob Gallaudet and tell him to call me here--tell him it's urgent."

  Fisk went for a phone. Vincennes said, "You're hitting the Hudgens end."

  Ed turned away from White. "_Think_. Dudley's a policeman. We need evidence, and we may get it tonight."

  "I'll take Stanton. We used to be friends."

  Line it--a Dieterling kid star, Preston Exley. "No . . . I mean are you up to it?"

  "It's my case too, Captain. I've come this far, and I went up against Patchett for you and damn near got killed."

  Weigh the risk. "All right, you take Stanton."

  Trash rubbed his face--pale, stubbled. "Did I . . . I mean when Karen was here and I was unconscious . . . did I . .

  "She doesn't know anything you don't want her to. Now go home, I want to talk to White."

  Vincennes walked out--ten years older in a day. White said, "The Hudgens end is bullshit. It's all Dudley now."

  "No. First we buy some time."

  "Protecting Daddy? Jesus, and I thought I was dumb on women."

  "_Just think_. Think what Dudley is and what taking him down means. Think, and I'll make you a deal."

  "I told you _never_."

  "You'll like this one. You keep quiet about my father and the Atherton case and I'll let you have Dudley and Perkins."

  White laughed. "The collars? I got them anyway."

  "No. I'll let you kill them."

CHAPTER SEVENTY

  Exley's rule rankled: no hitting, Billy and Timmy were too upscale to take muscle. Hotel good guy/bad guy rankled--they should be muscling Dudley at the Victory. Bob Gallaudet took Max Pelts; Trashcan was grilling Miller Stanton. Gallaudet got briefed by Exley--everything but the Atherton angle. He thought he could prosecute Dudley Smith, Exley didn't tell him Dud and Deuce Perkins were paid for. Fucking Exley wouldn't let him out of his sight--he took him through every piece of the case step by step, like they were partners who could trust each other. The case all put together was amazing, Exley had an amazing fucking brain--but he was stupid if he didn't know one thing: after Dudley and Deuce, Preston E. was next. Easy: Dick Stens wouldn't have it otherwise.

  Bud watched--a crack in the bathroom doorway.

  The queers sat side by side; Mr. Good Guy pussyfooted. Yes, they bought Fleur-de-Lis dope; yes, they knew Pierce Patchett "socially." Yes, Pierce snorted "H," we heard rumors he sold pornographic books--but we never indulged in such things. Kid gloves: the fruits thought the Patchett snuff was why they got the royal hotel treatment. Captain Exley would never be nasty-- Preston Exley was running for governor, Ray Dieterling throwing hot financial backup.

  Exley, loud. "Gentlemen, there's an old homicide that might tie in to the Patchett killing."

  Bud walked in. Exley said, "This is Sergeant White. He has a few questions for you, then I think we can wrap it up."

  Timmy Valburn sighed. "Well, I'm not surprised. Miller Stanton and Max Pelts are down the hall, and the last time the police questioned all of us was when that awful man Sid Hudgens was killed. So _I'm_ not surprised."

  Bud pulled a chair up. "Why'd you say 'awful'? You kill him?"

  "Oh, Sergeant _really_. Do I look like the killer type to you?"

  "Yeah, you do. Guy who makes his living playing a mouse has gotta be capable of anything."

  "Sergeant, _really_."

  "Besides, _you_ weren't called in on the Hudgens job. Billy tell you about it? A little pillow talk, maybe?"

  Billy Dieterling to Exley. "Captain, I don't like this man's tone."

  Exley said, "Sergeant, keep it clean."

  Bud laughed. "That's the pot calling the kettle black, but screw it. You guys alibied each other for Hudgens, now it's five years later and you alibi each other up for Patchett. Hinky to me. My take on fruits is that they can't stick to the same bed for five minutes, let alone five years."

  Valburn: "You're an animal."

  Bud pulled out a file sheet. "Alibis on the Hudgens case. You and Billy in bed together, Max Pelts porking some teenage quiff. Miller Stanton at a party where your queer buddy Brett Chase also happens to be. So far, we got a real all-American crew on _Badge of Honor_. David Mertens the set man, he's at home with his male nurse, so maybe he's fruit, too. What I want--"

  Exley, on cue: "Sergeant, watch your language and get to the point."

  Valburn seethed; Billy D. faked boredom. But something in the last spiel nudged him--his eyes went from good guy to bad guy. "The point is that Sid Hudgens had a boner for _Badge of Honor_ at the time he was killed. Patchett gets killed five years later, and him and Hudgens were partners. These homos here, they're both tied to _Badge of Honor_ and they kicked loose with intimate details on Patchett's rackets. Captain, if it walks, talks and quacks like a duck, then it's a duck--not a mouse."

  Valburn said, "Quack, quack, idiot. Captain, will you tell this man who he's dealing with?"

  Exley, stern. "Sergeant, these gentlemen aren't suspects. They're voluntary interviewees."

  "Well, shit, sir, I don't see no difference."

  Exley, exasperated. "Gentlemen, to end this once and for all, please tell the sergeant. Did either of you even know Sid Hudgens personally?"

  Two "No" head shakes. Bud flew--Exley poetry. "If it squeaks like a mouse and swishes, it's a queer mouse. Captain, think. These guys bought dope off Fleur-de-Lis, and they admitted they knew Patchett sniffed horse and pushed pornography. They've got the lowdown on Patchett's rackets, but they claim they didn't know Patchett and Hudgens were partners. I say we take them through Patchett's little enterprises and see what they do know."

  Exley raised his hands--fake helpless. "A few more specific questions then, gentlemen. Again, anything illegal that you admit to will be overlooked--and will not go outside this room. Do you understand, Sergeant?"

  Fucking brilliant: build them up to who made the blood smut. Trash said Timmy was spooked by the stuff--he showed it to him in '53. Credit Exley with balls--the closer they got to the smut the closer they got to his old man and Atherton. "Okay, sir."

  Timmy and Billy shared a look: nice people strafed by low class. Exley flashed it over. "And, Sergeant--I'll ask the questions."

  "Yes, sir. You guys tell the truth. I'll know if you're lying."

  Exley sighed. "Just a few questions. First, did you know that Patchett procured call girls for business associates?"

  Two "Yes" nods. Bud said, "He ran boys, too. You guys ever buy any outside stuff?"

  Exley:          "Not another word, Sergeant."

  Timmy slid closer to Billy. "I won't dignify that last question with an answer."

  Bud winked. "You're cute. I ever wind up in stir, I hope you're in my cell."

  Billy mimed spitting on the floor. Exley rolled his eyes--God save us from this heathen. "Moving along. Were you aware that Patchett employed a plastic surgeon to surgically alter his prostitutes to resemble movie stars?"

  Timmy said, "Yes," Billy said, "Yes." Exley smiled like that was everyday stuff. "Were you also aware that those prostitutes, both male and female, engaged in other criminal pursuits at Patchett's direction?"

  Build them up to "extortion," the Patchett/Hudgens partnership. Exley told him the story: Lorraine/Rita said "This Guy" made Patchett squeeze his "clients," right when Pierce was set to go partners with Hudgens--_right after the Nite Owl killings_. A brainstorm coming--maybe a connector back to Dudley. "Answer the captain, shitbirds."

  Billy said, "Ed, make him stop. Really, this has gone far enough."

  Bud laughed. "_Ed?_ Oops, I forgot, boss. Your daddy's pals with his daddy."

  Exley riled for real--flushed, trembling. "White, shut your mouth."

  The fruits loved it--smiles, titters. Exley said, "Gentlemen, please answer the question."

  Timmy shrugged. "Be specific. What other 'criminal pursuits'?"

  "Specifically blackmail."

  Two legs brushing twitched apart--Bud caught it plain. Exley touched his necktie--GO FULL.

  Brainstorm: Johnny Stomp as "This Guy." Johnny Stomp an old shake artist, no visible means of support. Crim 101-- Lorraine Malvasi said the squeezes went down May '53-- Dudley's gang had already teamed up with Patchett. "Yeah, _blackmail_. Married johns and pervs and queers are prone to it. It's like an occupational hazard. Ever get squeezed by one of your playmates?"

  Now Billy rolled his eyes. "We don't frequent prostitutes. Male or female."

  Bud pulled his chair closer. "Well, your sweetie pie here was a known associate of a known fruit hustler named Bobby Inge. If it quacks like a duck, it's a duck. So quack, quack, and kick loose with who put the arm on you."

  Exley, stern. "Gentlemen, do you know the names of any specific Patchett prostitutes?"

  Billy came on butch. "He's a storm trooper, and we don't have to answer his questions."

  "The fuck. You crawl around in sewers, you gotta meet some rats. Ever hear of a cute little twist named Daryl Bergeron? Ever get a yen for a woman and go for his mother? Daryl did-- Trashcan Jack Vincennes has got a smut book with pictures of them fucking on roller skates. You're floating in a sewer on a Popsicle stick you fucking queer bastards, so--"

  Valburn: "Ed, make him stop!"

  Exley:          "Sergeant, enough!"

  Bud, dizzy, like a man inside his head was feeding him lines. "The hell you say. These geeks are all over Patchett's schemes. One of them's a TV star, one of them's got a famous daddy. Two faggots with plenty of money just fucking ripe to be squeezed. That don't play smart to you?"

  Exley--KEEP STILL--a finger to his collar. "Sergeant White has a point, although I apologize for his way of expressing it. Gentlemen, just for the record. Have either of you any knowledge of extortion schemes involving Pierce Patchett and/or his prostitutes?"

  Timmy Valburn said, "No."

  Billy Dieterling said, "No."

  Bud got ready to whisper.

  Exley leaned forward. "Have either of you ever been threatened with blackmail?"

  Two more nos--two queers sweating up a nice cool room. Bud whispered, "Johnny Stompanato."

  The fags froze. Bud said, "_Badge of Honor_ dirt. Is that what he wanted?"

  Valburn started to speak--Billy shushed him. Exley: SLOW. The dizzy head man said NO. "Did he have dirt on your father? The great fucking Raymond Dieterling?"

  Exley shot the cut-off sign. The dizzy man showed his face: Dick Stens sucking gas. "_Dirt_. Wee Willie Wennerholm, Loren Atherton and the kiddie murders. _Your father_."

  Billy trembled, pointed to Exley. "_His_ father!"

  Four-way stares-cut off by Valburn sobbing. Billy helped him up, embraced him. Exley said, "Get out. Now. You're free to go."

  He looked sad more than mad or scared.

  Billy walked Timmy out. Bud walked to the window. Exley walked over, talked to a hand mike. "Duane, Valburn and Dieterling are on their way. You and Don tail them."

  Bud scoped him--a little taller, half his bulk. Something made him say, "I shouldn't have done that."

  Exley looked out the window. "It'll be over soon. All of it." Bud looked down. Fisk and Kleckner stood by the door; the queers hit the sidewalk running. The l.A. men chased--a bus held them back. The bus zoomed by--no Billy and Timmy. Fisk and Kleckner stood in the street looking stupid.

  Exley started laughing.

  Something made Bud laugh.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  They rehashed old times; Stanton drank room service bubbly. Jack laid out his pitch: Patchett/ Hudgens, smut, heroin, the Nite Owl. He could tell Miller knew something; he could tell he wanted to spill it.

  Old touches: how he taught Miller to play a cop; how he took Miller down to Central Avenue to get laid and wound up rousting Art Pepper. Gallaudet poked his head in, said Max Pelts was clean--Max stories ate up another hour. Miller got misty-- '58 would be the show's last season. Too bad they lost touch with each other, but the Big V was acting too crazy, a pariah in the Industry. White and Exley arguing next door--Jack cut to it.

  "Miller, is there something you're dying to tell me?"

  "I don't know, Jack. It's old rebop."

  "This mess _goes_ back. You know Patchett, don't you?"

  "How'd you know that?"

  "Educated guess. And the captain's file said Patchett bankrolled some old Dieterling films."

  Stanton checked his glass--empty. "Okay, I know Patchett from way back. It's some story, but I don't see how it applies to what you're interested in."

  Jack heard the side door scrape carpet. "All I know is that you've been dying to tell me ever since I said the word 'Patchett."'

  "Damn, I don't feel like a cop around you. I feel like a fat actor about to lose his series."

  Jack looked away-cut the man slack. Stanton said, "You know I was the chubby kid in Dieterling's serials way back when. Willie Wennerholm, Wee Willie, he was the big star. I used to see Patchett at the studio school, and I knew he was some kind of Dieterling business partner, because our tutor had a crush on him and told all the kids who he was."

  "And?"

  "And Wee Wiffie was kidnapped from the school and chopped up by Dr. Frankenstein. You know the case, it was famous. The police picked up this guy Loren Atherton. They said he killed Willie and all these other children. Jack, this is the hard part."

  "So tell it fast."

  Very fast. "Mr. Dieterling and Patchett came to me. They gave me tranquilizers and told me I had to come along with this older boy and visit a police station. I was fourteen, the older boy was maybe seventeen. Patchett and Mr. Dieterling coached me, and we went to the station. We talked to Preston Exley, he was a detective back then. We told him just what Patchett and Mr. Dieterling told us to-that we'd seen Atherton prowling around the studio school. We identified Atherton and Exley believed us."

  An actor's pause. Jack said, "Goddammit, _and?_"

  Slower. "I never saw the older boy again, and I can't even remember his name. Atherton was convicted and executed, and I wasn't asked to testify at his trial. It got to be '39, right in there. I was still in the Dieterling stable, but I was a boy ingenue. Mr. Dieterling had this little studio contingent go out to the opening of the Arroyo Seco Freeway, just a publicity appearance. Preston Exley, he was a big-shot contractor now, and he cut the ribbon. I heard Mr. Dieterling, Patchett and Terry Lux, you know him, talking."

  Pins and needles. "Miller, come on."

  "I'll never forget what they said, Jack. Patchett told Lux, 'I've got the chemicals to keep him from hurting anybody and you plasticked him.' Lux said, 'And I'll get him a keeper.' Mr. Dieterling, I'll never forget the way his voice sounded. He said, 'And I gave Preston Exley a scapegoat he believes in beyond Loren Atherton. And I think the man owes me too much now to hurt me."'

  Jack touched himself--he thought he'd stopped breathing. Breathing behind him--strained. Eyes on Exley and White in the doorway--up close to each other frozen.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  Now all his lines crossed in ink.

  Red ink mutilations. An inkwell spilling blood. Cartoon characters on a marquee with Raymond Dieterling, Preston Exley, an all-star criminal cast. Ink colors: red, green for bribe money. Black for mourning--the dead supporting players. White and Vincennes knew, they'd probably tell Gallaudet--he kicked them out of the hotel knowing it. He could warn his father or not warn his father and the end would be the same. He could keep going or sit in this room and watch his life explode on television.

  Long hours down--he couldn't reach for the phone. He turned on the TV, saw his father at a freeway ceremony, stuck his gun in his mouth while the man mouthed platitudes. The trigger half back--fade to a commercial. He emptied four rounds, spun the cylinder, put the barrel to his head. He squeezed the trigger twice, empty chambers, he couldn't believe what he'd done. He threw his piece out the window--a wino grabbed it off the sidewalk, shot up the sky. He laughed, sobbed, punched himself out on the furniture.

  More hours down doing nothing.

  The phone rang--Ed flailed for it blind. "Uh . . . yes?"

  "Captain, you there? It's Vincennes."

  "I'm here. What is it?"

  "I'm at the Bureau with White. We just caught a squeal and grabbed it. 2206 North New Hampshire, Billy Dieterling's house. Billy and an unknown male dead. Fisk rolled on it already. Cap, _are you there?_"

  No no no--yes. "I'm going . . . I'll be there."

  "Will do. And by the way, White and I didn't tell Gallaudet what Stanton said. Thought you should know that."

  "Thank you, Sergeant."

  "Thank White. He's the one you had to worry about."

o        o          o

  Fisk met him there--a mock Tudor lit by headlights--blackand-whites, crime lab cars on the lawn.

  Ed ran up; Fisk spoke shorthand. "Neighbor woman heard screams, waited half an hour and called. She saw a man run out, get into Billy Dieterling's car and take off. He hit a tree down the block, got out and ran. I took a statement. White, male, early forties, average build. Sir, brace yourself."

  Flashbulb pops inside. Ed said, "_Seal it here_. No Homicide, no station cops. No press, and I don't want Dieterling's father to find out. Have Kleckner seal the car and go get me Timmy Valburn. _Find him. Now_."

  "Sir, they blew our tail. I feel bad about this, like it's our fault."

  "It doesn't matter, just do what I told you."

  Fisk ran to his car; Ed walked in, looked.

  Billy Dieterling on a white couch soaked red. A knife in his throat; two knives in his stomach. His scalp on the floor, stuck to the carpet with an icepick. A few feet away: a fortyish white man--disemboweled, eviscerated, knives in his cheeks, two kitchen forks in his eyes. Drug capsules soaking in floor blood.

  No artful desecrations--his man was past it now.

  Ed walked into the kitchen. Patchett to Lux '39: "I've got the chemicals to keep him from hurting anybody, and you plasticked him." Cupboards dumped; forks and spoons on the floor. Ray Dieterling '39: "A scapegoat he believes in." Bloody footprints in and out--his man made trips for more adornment. Lux: "I'll get him a keeper." A scalp section in the sink. "Preston Exley, he was a big-shot contractor now." A bloody handprint on the wall, a psycho passion job for Crim 101's all-time list.

  Ed squinted at the print--ridges and whirls showed plainly. Psycho oblivion: his man pressed his hand there to leave an imprimatur.

  Back to the living room. Trashcan Jack in the middle of a half dozen lab techs. Bad flashbulb glare, no Bud White.

  Trash said, "The other man's Jerry Marsalas. He's a male nurse, and he's sort of the keeper of this guy on the _Badge of Honor_ crew. David Mertens, the set designer. Very quiet, he's got epilepsy or something like that."

  "Plastic surgery scars?"

  "Graft scars all over his neck and back. I saw him with his shirt off once."

  Techs swarming now--Ed led Vincennes out to the porch. Cool air, bright bright headlights. Trash said, "Mertens is the right age to be that older kid Stanton was talking about. Lux cut him, so Miller wouldn't have recognized him on the set. All the grafts on his back, he could have been cut lots of times. Jesus, the look on your face. You're taking it all the way?"

  "I don't know. I want one more day to see what we can get on Dudley."

  "And see if White tries to shank you. He could have told Gallaudet the whole story, but he didn't."

  "White's as crazy as anybody in this thing."

  Trash laughed. "Yeah, like you. Boss, if you and Gallaudet want this mess to go to due process, you'd better lock that boy up. He's out to kill Dudley and Deuce, and believe me he'll do it."

  Ed laughed. "I told him he could."

  "You'd _let him_ do--"

  Cut him off. "Jack, do this. Stake Mertens' place and see if you can find White, then--"

  "He's chasing down Perkins, how do I--"

  "Just try to find him. And with or without him, meet me at Mickey Cohen's house tomorrow at nine. We're going to brace him on Dudley."

  Vincennes looked around. "I don't see anybody from Homicide here."

  "You and Fisk caught it, so Homicide doesn't know. I can keep it I.A.-sealed for twenty-four hours or so. It's ours until the press gets it."

  "No APB on Mertens?"

  "I'll call out half of l.A. He's a drooling psychotic. We'll get him."

  "Suppose I find him. You don't want him talking old times, not with your father part of it."

  "Take him alive. I want to talk to him."

  Vincennes said, "For crazy, White's got nothing on you."

o        o          o

  Ed sealed it.

  He called Chief Parker, told him he had an I.A.-related double homicide and was keeping the victims' identities secret. He woke up five I.A. men, filled them in on David Mertens, sent them out to search for him. He made the neighbor lady who called in the squeal take a sedative, go to bed, promise she wouldn't spill the name "Billy Dieterling" to the press. The press arrived--he mollified them with John Doe IDs, sent them packing. He walked to the end of the block and examined the car--Kleckner watchdogging it--a Packard Caribbean with the front wheels up on the curb, the fender nosed into a tree. The driver's seat, dash and shift lever--bloody; perfect bloody handprints on the outside of the windshield. Kleckner stripped the license plates; Ed told him to drive the car home, stash it, team up with the searchers. Courtesy calls from a pay phone: the watch commander at Rampart Station, the duty M.E. at the City Morgue. A lie: Parker wanted a twenty-four-hour blanket on the killings-- no statements to the press, no autopsy reports circulated. 3:40 A.M., no Homicide brass at the scene--Parker carte-blanched him.

  Sealed.

  Ed walked back to the house. Quiet--no newsmen, no rubberneckers. Tape outlines--no bodies. Techs dusting, bagging evidence. Fisk in the kitchen doorway--looking nervous. "Sir, I've got Valburn. Inez Soto's with him. I went down to Laguna on a hunch. You told me Miss Soto knew him."

  "What did Valburn tell you?"

  "Nothing. He said he'd only talk to you. I broke it to him, and he cried himself out on the ride up. He said he's ready to make a statement."

  Inez walked out. Grief all over her, her nails chewed bloody. "I blame you for this. I blame you for pushing Billy to it."

  "I don't know what you mean, but I'm sorry."

  "You had me spy on Raymond. Now you did this."

  Ed stepped toward her. She slapped him, hit him. "Leave us all alone!"

  Fisk grabbed her, eased her outside. Gentle--soft hands, a low voice. Ed walked down the hall looking in rooms.

  Valburn in the den, taking pictures off the wall. Bright eyes glazed over, a too-bright voice. "If I keep doing things I'll be fine."

  A group shot came down. "I need a full statement."

  "Oh, you'll get one."

  "Mertens killed Hudgens, Billy and Marsalas, plus Wee Willie and those other children. I need the why. Timmy, look at me."

  Timmy plucked a framed photo. "We were together since 1949. We had our little indiscretions, but we always stayed together and loved each other. Don't give me a speech about getting his killer, Ed. I just couldn't bear it. I'll tell you what you want to know, but try not to be déclassé."

  "Timmy--"

  Valburn threw the frame at the wall. "David Mertens, goddamn you!"

  Glass shattered. The picture landed face up: Raymond Dieterling holding an inkwell. "Start with the pornography. Jack Vincennes talked to you about it five years ago, and he thought you were holding back."

  "Is this another third degree?"

  "Don't make it one."

  Timmy squared a stack of frames. "Jerry Marsalas made David create that strange . . . filth. Jerry was a very bad man. He'd been David's companion for years, and he regulated the drugs that kept him . . . relatively normal. Sometimes he'd escalate and de-escalate his dosages and get David to do commercial art piecework, just so he could keep the money. Raymond paid Jerry to look after David. He got David the job at _Badge of Honor_ so that Billy could look after him, too--Billy ran the camera crew since the show first went on."

  Ed said, "Don't get ahead of yourself. Where did Marsalas and Mertens find the posers?"

  Timmy hugged his pictures. "Fleur-de-Lis. Marsalas had used the service for years. He'd buy call girls when he was flush, and he knew lots of Pierce's old string of girls and lots of . . . sexually adventurous people that the girls told him about. He found out that a lot of Fleur-de-Lis customers had a bent for specialty smut, and he talked some of Pierce's old girls into letting him voyeur their sex parties. Jerry took pictures, David took pictures, and Jerry escalated David's drug intake and made him do pasteup work. The ink blood was all David's idea. Jerry hired some studio art director to make finished books out of the pictures and took them to Pierce. Do you follow? I don't know what _you_ know."

  Ed got out his notebook. "Miller Stanton told us some background things. Patchett and Dieterling were partners at the time of the Atherton killings, and you know I make Mertens for them. Just keep going. If I need something clarified, I'll tell you."

  Timmy said, "All right then. If you don't know it, the ink pictures were similar to the woundings on the Atherton victims. Pierce didn't know it when he saw the books, I guess only policemen saw the evidence photos. He also didn't know that David Mertens was the Wennerholm killer's new identity, so when Marsalas hatched this plan to sell the books and went to Pierce for financing, he just thought it was dirty books that compromised his prostitutes and their customers. He turned Marsalas down on his offer, but he did buy some of the books to sell through Fleur-de-Lis. Then Marsalas went to this man Duke Cathcart, and he went to these people the Englekling brothers. Ed, your Mr. Fisk hinted that all this has to do with the Nite Owl case, but I don't--"

  "I'll tell you later. You're talking about early '53, and I'm following you so far. Just keep telling it in order."

  Timmy laid his pictures down. "Then Patchett went to Sid Hudgens. He and Hudgens were going to be partners in some extortion thing that I don't know anything about, and Pierce told Hudgens about Marsalas and his smut. He'd had Marsalas checked out, and he knew he was a regular on the _Badge of Honor_ set, which interested Hudgens, because he had always wanted to do an exposé on the show for _Hush-Hush_. Pierce gave Hudgens a few of the books he'd held back from Fleur-de-Lis, and Hudgens approached Marsalas. He demanded information on the show's stars and threatened Jerry with exposure of his smut dealings if he didn't cooperate. Jerry gave him some tame stuff on Max Pelts, and a little while later it appeared in print. Then Hudgens was murdered, and of course it was Jerry who put David up to it. He lowered his drug dosage and drove him insane. David reverted to his old . . . to the way he killed the children. Marsalas did it because he was afraid Hudgens would keep trying to extort him. He went with David, and he stole Hudgens' _Badge of Honor_ files from his house, including an incomplete file Hudgens had on him and David. I don't think he knew that Pierce already had carbons of the files he and Hudgens were going to use for their blackmail thing, or that Pierce knew the bank where Hudgens kept his original files stashed."

  Three key questions coming up; more corroboration first. "Timmy, when Vincennes questioned you five years ago, you acted suspiciously. Did you know back then that Mertens made the smut?"

  "Yes, but I didn't know who David _was_. All I knew was that Billy kept an eye on him, so I kept quiet to Jack."

  Question number one. "How do you know all this? Everything you've told me."

  Timmy's eyes glazed fresh. "I found out tonight. After the hotel, Billy wanted that awful policeman's hints about Johnny Stompanato explained. Billy's known most of the story for years, but he wanted to know the rest. We went to Raymond's house in Laguna. Raymond knew about the more recent things from Pierce, and he told Billy the whole story. I just listened."

  "And Inez was there."

  "Yes, she heard it all. She blames you, sweetie. Pandora's box and all that."

  She knew, his father probably knew. Full disclosure as good as public. "So Patchett supplied the dope that's kept Mertens docile all these years."

  "Yes, he's quite physiologically ill. He gets brain inflammations periodically, and that's when he's most dangerous."

  "And Dieterling got him the job with _Badge of Honor_ so Billy could look after him."

  "Yes. After the Hudgens killing Raymond read about the mutilations and thought they sounded like the ones from the old child murders. He contacted Patchett, who he knew was friendly with Hudgens. Raymond revealed David's identity to Pierce, and Pierce became terrified. Raymond was afraid to take David away from Jerry, and he's been paying Jerry extraordinary money to keep David drugged up."

  Key question two. "You've been waiting for this one, Timmy. Why has Ray Dieterling gone to all this trouble for David?"

  Timmy turned a picture around--Billy, a lump-faced man. "David is Raymond's illegitimate son. He's Billy's half brother, and look at him. Terry Lux has cut him so often that he's so ugly next to my sweet Billy that you almost can't look."

  Moving on grief--Ed cut in before he snapped. "What happened tonight?"

  "Tonight Raymond filled Billy in on everything going back to Sid Hudgens--he didn't know any of it. Billy made me stay with Inez at Laguna. He told me he was going to snatch David from Jerry's house and wean him off the drugs. He must have tried it, and Marsalas must have retaliated. I saw those pills on the floor . . . and oh God David must have just gone insane. He couldn't understand who was good and who was bad and just..."

  Three. "At the hotel you reacted to Johnny Stompanato. Why?"

  "Stompanato's been blackmailing Pierce's customers for years. He caught me with another man and got part of the Mertens story out of me. Not much, just that Raymond paid for David's upkeep. It . . . it was before I knew very much. Stompanato's been preparing a dossier to bleed Raymond dry. He's been threatening Billy with notes, but I don't think he knows who David is. Billy was trying to convince his father to have him killed."

  Sun broke through a window--it caught Timmy when his tears broke through. He held Billy's picture, a hand over David's face.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

  An I.A. goon relieved him at 7:00--pissed that he was sleeping, slumped in the doorway with his gun out. The house stayed virgin--no blood-crazed David Mertens showed up. The l.A. guy said Mertens was still at large; Captain Exley's orders: meet him and Bud White at Mickey Cohen's place at 9:00. Jack rolled to a pay phone, played a hunch. A call to the Bureau--Dudley Smith on "emergency family leave." Breuning and Carlisle working "out of state"--the squad lieutenant at 77th the temporary Nite Owl boss. A buzz to the Main Woman's Jail: Deputy Dot Rothstein on "emergency family leave." The hunch: they had nothing but theories, Dudley's loose ends were getting snipped.

  Jack drove home, shaking off a dream: Davey Goldman's wet-brain ramblings. Make the "Dutchman" Dean Van Gelder, the "Irish Cheshire" Dudley. "Franchise boys got theirs three triggers blip blip blip"--call that the shooters--Stompanato, Vachss, Teitlebaum--taking out hoods. "Bump bump bump bump bump bump bump cute train"--??????? Crazy--maybe Patchett's dope was still working some voodoo.

  Karen's car was gone. Jack walked in, saw a layout on the coffee table: airplane tickets, a note.

J.--

  Hawaii, and note the date. May 15, the day you become an official pensioner. Ten days and nights to get reacquainted. Dinner tonight. I made reservations at Perino's, and if you're still working call me so I can cancel.

xxxxx K.

  P.S. I know you're wondering, so I'll tell you. When you were at the hospital you talked in your sleep. Jack, I know the worst I can possibly know and I don't care. We never have to discuss it. Capt. Exley heard you and I don't think he cares either. (He's not as bad as you said he was.)

Many X's

    K.

  Jack tried to cry--no go. He shaved, showered, put on slacks and his best sports jacket--over a Hawaiian shirt. He drove to Brentwood thinking everything around him looked new.

o        o          o

  Exley on the sidewalk, holding a tape recorder. Bud White on the porch--l.A. must have found him. Jack made it a threesome.

  White walked over. Exley said, "I just spoke to Gallaudet. He said without hard evidence we can't go to Loew. Mertens and Perkins are still out there, and Stompanato's in Mexico with Lana Turner. If Mickey doesn't give us anything good, then I'm going directly to Parker. Full disclosure on Dudley."

  From the doorway: "Are you coming in or aren't you? You want to give me grief, give me indoor grief."

  Mickey Cohen in a robe and Jew beanie. "Last call to give grief! Are you coming?"

  They walked up. Cohen closed the door, pointed to a small gold coffin. "My late canine heir, Mickey Cohen, Jr. Distract me from my real grief, you goyisher cop fucks. The service is today at Mount Sinai. I bribed the rabbi to give my beloved a human sendoff. The shmendriks at the mortuary think they're burying a midget. Talk to me."

  Exley talked. "We came to tell you who's been killing your franchise people."

  "What 'franchise people'? Continue in this vein and I shall have to stand on the Fifth Amendment. And what is that tape doohickey you're holding?"

  "Johnny Stompanato, Lee Vachss and Abe Teitlebaum. They're part of a gang, and they got the heroin you lost at your meeting with Jack Dragna back in '50. They've been killing your franchise people, and they tried to have you and Davey Goldman killed at McNeil. They bombed your house and didn't get you, but sooner or later they will."

  Cohen laughed outright. "Granted, those old pals have been vacant from my life and are not amenable to rejoining me. But they do not have the intelligence to fuck with the Mickster and succeed."

  White: "Davey Goldman was working with them. They crossed him when they tried to clip you two at McNeil."

  Mickey Cohen, livid. "No! Never in six thousand millenniums would Davey do that to me! Never! Sedition in the same league as Communism you are talking!"

  Jack said, "We got proof. Davey had your cell bugged. That's how word on the Englekling brothers and who knows what else got out."

  "Lies! Combine Davey with the others and you still do not have the voltage to fuck with me!"

  Exley futzed with the recorder--tape spun. Whirr, whirr, "My God to be so nimble and so hung, like Heifetz on the fiddle with his shlong that dog is, and hung like--"

  Cohen hit the roof. "No! No! No man on earth is capable of shtupping me like that!"

  Exley pushed buttons. Start--"Lana, what a snatch she must have"--stop, start--a card game, a toilet flushing. Mickey kicked the coffin. "All right! I believe you!"

  Jack: "Now you know why Davey wouldn't let you put him in a rest home."

  Cohen wiped his face with his beanie. "Not even Hitler is capable of such things. Who could be so brainy and so ruthless?"

  White said, "Dudley Smith."

  "Oh, Jesus Christ. Him I could believe. No . . . tell me in full view of my late beloved you are joking."

  "An LAPD captain? This is for real, Mick."

  "No, this I don't believe. Give me proof, give me evidence."

  Exley said, "Mickey, you give us some."

  Cohen sat down on the coffin. "I think I know who tried to clip me and Davey in the pen. Coleman Stein, George Magdaleno and Sal Bonventre. They're en route to San Quentin, a pickup chain from other jails. When they land, you could talk to them, ask them who put out the bid on me and Davey. I was going to clip them, but I couldn't get a good rate, such gomfs these jailhouse killers are."

  Exley packed up his tape kit. "Thanks. When the bus gets in, we'll be there."

  Cohen moaned. White said, "Kieckner left me a memo. Kikey and Lee Vachss are supposed to be meeting at the deli this morning. I say we brace them."

  Exley said, "Let's do it."

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

  Abe's Noshery: the tables full, Kikey T. at the cash register. White pressed up to the window. "Lee Vachss at a table on the right." Ed put a hand on his holster--empty--his suicide play. Trashcan opened the door.

  Chimes. Kikey glanced over, reached under the register. Ed saw Vachss make heat, make like he was smoothing his trousers. Metal flashing waist-high.

  People ate, talked. Waitresses circulated. Trash walked toward the register; White eyeballed Vachss. Metal flashed: under the table coming up.

  Ed pulled White to the floor.

  Kikey and Vincennes drew down.

  Crossfire--six shots--the window went out, Kikey hit a stack of canned goods. Screams, panic runs, blind shots--Vachss firing wild toward the door. An old man went down coughing blood; White stood up shooting, a moving target--Vachss weaving back toward the kitchen. A spare on White's waistband--Ed stumbled up, grabbed it.

  Two triggers on Vachss. Ed fired--Vachss spun around grabbing his shoulder. White fired wide; Vachss tripped, crawled, stood up--his gun to a waitress' head.

  White walked toward him. Vincennes circled left; Ed circled right. Vachss blew the woman's brains out point-blank.

  White fired. Vincennes fired. Ed fired. No hits--the woman's body toOk their shots. Vachss inched backward. White ran up; Vachss wiped brains off his face. White emptied his gun--all head shots.

  Screams, a stampede to the door, a man bucking glass shards out the window. Ed ran to the counter, bolted it.

  Kikey on the floor, blood gouting from chest wounds. Ed got right up in his face. "Give me Dudley. Give me Dudley for the Nite Owl."

  Sirens loud. Ed cupped an ear, bent down.

  "Grand. Begorra, lad."

  Down closer. "Who took out the Nite Owl?"

  Blood gurgles. "Me. Lee. Johnny Stomp. Deuce drove."

  "_Abe, give me Dudley_."

  "Grand, lad."

  Sirens brutal loud. Shouts, footsteps. "The Nite Owl. _Why?_"

  Kikey coughed blood. "Dope. Picture books. Cathcart had go. Lunceford on posse what got dope and hung out Nite Owl. F.I.'s on Stomp so Deucey stole. Man said scare Patchett. Two birds one stone Duke and Mal. Mal wanted money 'cause he knew man on posse."

  "Give me Dudley. Say Dudley Smith was your partner."

  Vincennes squatted down. The restaurant boomed: millions of voices. Blood on the counter--Ed thought of David Mertens. A flash--the Dieterling studio school--a mile from Billy D.'s house. "Abe, he can't hurt you now."

  Kikey started choking.

  "Abe--"

  "Can too hurt can too."

  Fading--Trash slammed his chest. "You fuck, give us something!"

  Kikey mumbled, pulled a gold star off his neck. "Mitzvah. Johnny wants jail guys out. Q train. Dot got guns."

  Vincennes, looking crazed. "It's a train, not a bus. It's a crash-out. Davey G. knew about it, he was rambling. Exley, the cute train, the _Q train_. Cohen said the guys from the jail bid are on it."

  Ed grabbed at it, caught it. "YOU CALL."

  Trash ran out. Ed stood up, breathed chaos: cops, shattered glass, an ambulance backed through the window loading bodies. Bud White shouting orders, a little girl in a blood-spattered dress eating a doughnut.

  Trash came back--more crazed. "The train left L.A. ten minutes ago. Thirty-two inmates in one car, and the phone on board's out. I called Kleckner and told him to find Dot Rothstein. This was a set-up, Captain. Kleckner never left White that memo-this had to be Dudley."

  Ed shut his eyes.

  "Exley--"

  "All right, you and White go to the train. I'll call the Sheriff's and Highway Patrol and have them set up a diversion."

  White walked over, winked at Ed. He said, "Thanks for the push," stepped on Kikey T.'s face until he quit breathing.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

  A motorcycle escort met them, shot them out the Pomona Freeway. Half the stretch elevated: you could see the California Central tracks, a single train running north--a freight carrier, inmate cargo in the third car--barred windows, steel-reinforced doors. Surface streets outside Fontana-- up to hills abutting the tracks--and a small standing army.

  Nine prowl cars, sixteen men with gas masks and riot pumps. Sharpshooters in the hills, two machinegunners, three guys with smoke grenades. At the edge of the curve: a big buck deer on the tracks.

  A deputy handed them shotguns, gas masks. "Your pal Kleckner called the command post, said that Rothstein woman was DOA at her apartment. She either hanged herself or somebody hanged her. Either way, we gotta assume she got the guns on. There's four guards and six crewmen on board that train. We stand ready with smoke and call for the password--every prison chain's got one. We hear the okay, we call a warning and wait. No okay, we go in."

  A train whistle blew. Somebody yelled, "Now!"

  The sharpshooters ducked down. The gas men hugged the ground. The fire team ran behind a pine row--Bud found a tree up close. Jack took a spot beside him.

  The train made the curve--brakes caught, sparks on the tracks. The engine car stopped--nose up to the obstruction.

  Megaphone: "Sheriff's! Identify yourself with the password!" Silence--ten seconds' worth. Bud eyeballed the engine car window--blue demin flashed.

  "Sheriff's! Identify yourself with the password!"

  Silence--then a fake bird call.

  The gas men hit the windows--grenades broke glass, slipped between the bars. Tommygunners charged car 3--full clips took down the door.

  Smoke, screams.

  Somebody yelled, "Now!"

  Smoke out the door--men in khaki running through it. A sharpshooter picked one off; somebody yelled, "No, they're ours!"

  Cops swarmed the car--masks on, shotguns up. Jack grabbed Bud. "They're not in that one!"

  Bud ran, hit the car 4 platform. Open the door--a dead guard just inside, inmates running helter-skelter.

  Bud fired, pumped, fired--three went down, one aimed a handgun. Bud pumped, fired, missed--a crate beside the man exploded. Jack jumped on the platform--the inmate squeezed a shot. Jack caught it in the face, spun, hit the tracks.

  The shooter ran. Bud pumped, hit empty. He dropped his shotgun, pulled his .38-one, two, three, four, five, six shots-- hits in the back, he was killing a dead man. Noise outside the car-convicts on the tracks by Trashcan's body. Deputies behind them firing close--buckshot and blood, black/red air.

  A smoke bomb exploded--Bud ran into #5 gagging. Gunfire: white guys in denim shooting colored guys in denim, guards in khaki shooting both of them. He jumped the train, ran for the trees.

  Bodies on the tracks.

  Convicts picked off sitting duck-style.

  Bud hit the pines, hit his car, gunned it over the tracks dragging the axles. Into a gully, fishtailing down, tires sliding on gravel. A tall man standing by a car. Bud saw who he was, aimed straight for him.

  The man ran. Bud sideswiped the car, skidded to a stop. He got out--groggy, bloody from a crack on the dash. Deuce Perkins walked up shooting.

  Bud caught one in the leg, one in the side. Two misses, a hit in the shoulder. Another miss--Perkins dropped the gun, pulled a knife. Bud saw rings on his fmgers.

  Deuce stabbed. Bud felt his chest rip, tried to make fists, couldn't. Deuce lowered his face, smirked--Bud kneed him in the balls and bit his nose off. Perkins shrieked; Bud bit into his arm, threw his weight down.

  They tumbled. Perkins made animal noises. Bud thrashed his head, felt the arm rip out of its socket.

  Deuce dropped the knife. Bud picked it up--blinded by rings that killed women. He dropped the knife, beat Perkins to death with his own two wounded hands.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

  The Patchett estate in ruins-- two acres of soot, debris. Shingles on the lawn, a scorched palm tree in the pool. The house itself rubble-collapsed stucco, soaked ashes. Find a booby-trapped safe inside a six-trillionsquare-inch perimeter.

  Ed kicked through the rubble. David Mertens hovered--he had to be _there_, it was just too right.

  The floor collapsed into the foundation blocks--timber to be cleared away. Wood heaps, mounds of sodden fabric--no telltale metal glints. A ten-man/one-week job, a tech for the booby trap. Around to the yard.

  A cement back porch--a slab with fried furniture. Solid cement--no cracks, no grooves, no obvious access to a safe hole. The pool house another rubble heap.

  Wood three feet high--too much work if Mertens was there. Circuit the pool--burned chairs, a diving platform. A handgrenade pin floating in the water.

  Ed kicked the floating palm tree. Porcelain chips in the fronds; a piece of shrapnel embedded in the trunk. Down prone, squinting: capsules in the water, black squares that looked like detonator caps. The shallow end steps exploded plaster--metal grids showing, more pills. Check the lawn--extra-scorched grass running from the pool to the house.

  Access to the safe. Grenade and dynamite safeguards. Flames shooting to the terminus, defusing the booby trap-just maybe.

  Ed jumped in the water, tore at the plaster--pills and bubbles broke to the surface. Two-handed rips--plaster, water, bubbles, a swinging metal door. Pill eruptions, folders under plastic, plastic over cash and white powder. Loads and loads and loads--then nothing but a deep black hole. Sopping-wet runs to his car--the sun beat down--he was almost dry when he got the stash loaded. One last trip in case HE was THERE: pills scooped from the deep end.

o        o          o

  The car heater warmed him up. He drove to the Dieterling school, bolted the fence.

  Quiet--Saturday--no classes. A typical playground--basketball hoops, softball diamonds. Moochie Mouse on everything-- backboards to base markers.

  Ed walked to the south fence perimeter--the closest route from Billy Dieterling's house. Gristled skin on chain links-- handholds up and over. Dark dots on faded asphalt--blood, an easy trail.

  Across the playground, down steps to a boiler room door. Blood on the knob, a light on inside. He took out Bud White's spare, walked in.

  David Mertens shivering in a corner. A hot room--the man sweating up bloody clothes. He showed his teeth, twisted his mouth into a screech. Ed threw the pills at him.

  He grabbed them, gagged them down. Ed aimed at his mouth, couldn't pull the trigger. Mertens stared at him. Something strange happened with time--it left them alone. Mertens fell asleep, his lips curled over his gums. Ed looked at his face, tried for some outrage. He still couldn't kill him.

  Time came back: the wrong way. Trials, sanity hearings, Preston Exley reviled for letting this monster go free. Time hard on the trigger--he still couldn't do it.

  Ed picked the man up, carried him out to his car.

o        o          o

  Pacific Sanitarium--Malibu Canyon. Ed told the gate guard to send down Dr. Lux--Captain Exley wanted to pay back his favor.

  The guard pointed him to a space. Ed parked, ripped off Mertens' shirt. Brutal--the man was one huge scar.

  Lux headed over. Ed pulled out two bags of powder, two stacks of thousand-dollar bills. He placed them on the hood, rolled down the rear windows.

  Lux walked up, checked the back seat. "I know that work. That's Douglas Dieterling."

  "Just like that?"

  Lux tapped the powder. "The late Pierce Patchett's? Let's not be outraged, Captain. The last I heard you were no Cub Scout. And what is it that you wish?"

  "That man taken care of on a locked ward for the rest of his life."

  "I find that acceptable. Is this compassion or the desire to spare our future governor's reputation?"

  "I don't know."

  "Not a typical Exley answer. Enjoy the grounds, Captain. I'll have my orderlies clean up here."

  Ed walked to a terrace, looked at the ocean. Sun, waves-- maybe some sharks out feeding. A radio snapped on behind him. ". . . so for more on that thwarted prison train break. A Highway Patrol spokesman told reporters that the death toll now stands at twenty-eight inmates, seven guards and crew members. Four deputy sheriffs were injured and Sergeant John Vincennes, celebrated Los Angeles policeman and the former technical advisor to the _Badge of Honor_ TV show, was shot and killed. Sergeant Vincennes' partner, LAPD Sergeant Wendell White, is in critical condition at Fontana General Hospital. White pursued and killed the crash-out's pickup man, identified as Burt Arthur 'Deuce' Perkins, a nightclub entertainer with underworld connections. A team of doctors are now striving to save the valiant officer's life, although he is not expected to live. Captain George Rachlis of the California Highway Patrol calls this tragedy--"

  The ocean blurred through his tears. White winked and said, "Thanks for the push." Ed turned around. The monster, the dope, the money-gone.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

  The pool stash: twenty-one pounds of heroin, $871,400, carbons of Sid Hudgens' dirt files. Included: blackmail photos, records of Pierce Patchett's criminal enterprises. The name "Dudley Smith" did not appear--nor did the names of John Stompanato, Burt Arthur Perkins, Abe Teitlebaum, Lee Vachss, Dot Rothstein, Sergeant Mike Breuning, Officer Dick Carlisle. Coleman Stein, Sal Bonventre, George Magdaleno--killed in the crash-out. Davey Goldman reinterviewed at Camarillo State Hospital--he could not give a coherent statement. The Los Angeles County Coroner's Office ruled Dot Rothstein's death a suicide. David Mertens stayed in locked-ward custody at Pacific Sanitarium. Relatives of the three innocent citizens killed at Abe's Noshery brought suit against the LAPD for reckless endangerment. The crash-out received national news coverage, was labeled the "Blue Denim Massacre." Surviving inmates told Sheriff's detectives that squabbling among the armed prisoners resulted in guns changing hands-- soon every inmate on the train was free. Racial tensions flared up, aborting the crash-out before the authorities arrived.

  Jack Vincennes was posthumously awarded the LAPD's Medal of Valor. No LAPD men were invited to the funeral--the widow refused an audience with Captain Ed Exley.

  Bud White refused to die. He remained in intensive care at Fontana General Hospital. He survived massive shock, neurological trauma, the loss of over half the blood in his body. Lynn Bracken stayed with him. He could not speak, but responded to questions with nods. Chief Parker presented him with his Medal of Valor. White freed an arm from a traction sling, threw the medal in his face.

  Ten days passed.

  A warehouse in San Pedro burned to the ground--remnants of pornographic books were discovered. Detectives labeled the fire "professional arson," reported no leads. The building was owned by Pierce Patchett. Chester Yorkin and Lorraine Malvasi were reinterrogated. They offered no salient information, were released from custody.

  Ed Exley burned the heroin, kept the files and the money. His final Nite Owl report omitted mention of Dudley Smith and the fact that David Mertens, now the object of an all-points bulletin for his murders of Sid Hudgens, Billy Dieterling and Jerry Marsalas, was also the 1934 slayer of Wee Willie Wennerholm and five other children. Preston Exley's name was not spoken in any context.

  Chief Parker held a press conference. He announced that the Nite Owl case had been solved-correctly this time. The gunmen were Burt Arthur "Deuce" Perkins, Lee Vachss, Abraham "Kikey" Teitlebaum--their motive to kill Dean Van Gelder, an ex-convict masquerading as the incorrectly identified Delbert "Duke" Cathcart. The shootings were conceived as a terror tactic, an attempt to take over the vice kingdom of Pierce Morehouse Patchett, a recent murder victim himself. The State Attorney General's Office reviewed Captain Ed Exley's 114-page case summary and announced that it was satisfied. Ed Exley again received credit for breaking the Nite Owl murder case. He was promoted to inspector in a televised ceremony.

  The next day Preston Exley announced that he would seek the Republican Party's gubernatorial nomination. He shot to the front of a hastily conducted poll.

  Johnny Stompanato returned from Acapulco, moved into Lana Turner's house in Beverly Hills. He remained there, never venturing outside, the object of a constant surveillance supervised by Sergeants Duane Fisk and Don Kleckner. Chief Parker and Ed Exley referred to him as their Nite Owl "Addendum"-- the living perpetrator to feed the public now that they were temporarily moffified with dead killers. When Stompanato left Beverly Hills for Los Angeles City proper, he would be arrested. Parker wanted a clean front-page arrest just over the city line--he was wiffing to wait for it.

  The Nite Owl case and the murders of Billy Dieterhng and Jerry Marsalas remamed news They were never speculatively connected. Timmy Valburn refused to comment. Raymond Dieterhng issued a press release expressmg grief over the loss of his son He closed down Dream a Dreamland for a one month period of mourning. He remained in seclusion at his house in Laguna Beach, attended to by his friend and aide Inez Soto.

  Sergeant Mike Breuning and Officer Dick Carlisle remained on emergency leave.

  Captain Dudley Smith remained front stage center throughout the post-reopening round of press conferences and LAPD/D.A.'s Office meetings. He served as toastmaster at Thad Green's surprise party honoring Inspector Ed Exley. He did not appear in any way flustered knowing that Johnny Stompanato remained at large, was under twenty-four-hour surveillance and thus immune to assassination. He did not seem to care that Stompanato would be arrested in the near future.

  Preston Exley, Raymond Dieterling and Inez Soto did not contact Ed Exley to congratulate him on his promotion and reversal of bad press.

  Ed knew they knew. He assumed Dudley knew. Vincennes dead, White fighting to live. Only he and Bob Gallaudet knew--and Gallaudet knew nothing pertaining to his father and the Atherton case.

  Ed wanted to kill Dudley outright.

  Gallaudet said, kill yourself instead, that's what you'd be doing.

  They decided to wait it out, do it right.

  Bud White made the wait unbearable.

  He had tubes in his arms, splints on his fingers. His chest held three hundred stitches. Bullets had shattered bones, ripped arteries. He had a plate in his head. Lynn Bracken tended to him--she could not meet Ed's eyes. White could not talk--being able to talk in the future was doubtful. His eyes were eloquent: Dudley. Your father. What are you going to do about it? He kept trying to make the V-for-victory sign. Three visits, Ed finally got it: the Victory Motel, Mobster Squad HQ.

  He went there. He found detailed notes on White's prostitutekilling investigation. The notes were a limited man reaching for the stars, puffing most of them down. Limits exceeded through a briffiantly persistent rage. Absolute justice--anonymous, no rank and glory. A single line on the Englekling brothers that told him their killer still walked free. Room 11 at the Victory Motel--Wendell "Bud" White seen for the first time.

  Ed knew why he sent him there--and followed up.

  A phone company check, one interview--all it took. Confirmation, an epigraph to build on it: Absolute Justice. The TV news said Ray Dieterling walked through Dream-a-Dreamland every day-casing his grief in a deserted fantasy kingdom. He'd give Bud White a full day of his justice.

o        o          o

  Good Friday, 1958. The A.M. news showed Preston Exley entering St. James Episcopal Church. Ed drove to City Hall, walked up to Ellis Loew's office.

  Still early--no receptionist. Loew at his desk, reading. Ed rapped on the door.

  Loew glanced up. "Inspector Ed. Have a chair."

  "I'll stand."

  "Oh? Is this business?"

  "Of sorts. Last month Bud White called you from San Francisco and told you Spade Cooley was a sex killer. You said you'd put a D.A.'s Bureau team on it, and you didn't. Cooley has donated in excess of fifteen thousand dollars to your slush fund. You called the Biltmore Hotel from your place in Newport and talked to a member of Cooley's band. You told him to warn Spade and the rest of the guys that a crazy cop was going to come around and cause trouble. White braced Deuce Perkins, the real killer. Perkins sent him after Spade, he probably thought he'd kill him and save him from the rap. Perkins was warned by you and went into hiding. He stayed out long enough to turn White into a vegetable."

  Loew, calm. "You can't prove any of that. And since when are you so concerned about White?"

  Ed laid a folder on his desk. "Sid Hudgens had a file on you. Contribution shakedowns, felony indictments you dismissed for money. He's got the McPherson tank job documented, and Pierce Patchett had a photograph of you sucking a male prostitute's dick. Resign from office or it all goes public."

  Loew--sheet white. "I'll take you with me."

  "Do it. I'd enjoy the ride."

o        o          o

  He saw it from the freeway: Rocketland and Paul's World juxtaposed--a spaceship growing out of a mountain, a big empty parking lot. He took surface streets to the gate, showed the guard his shield. The man nodded, swung the fence open.

  Two figures strolled the Grand Promenade. Ed parked, walked up to them. Dream-a-Dreamland stood hear-a-pin-drop silent.

  Inez saw him--a pivot, a hand on Dieterling's arm. They whispered; Inez walked off.

  Dieterling turned. "Inspector."

  "Mr. Dieterling."

  "It's Ray. And I'm tempted to say what took you so long."

  "You knew I'd be coming?"

  "Yes. Your father disagreed and went on with his plans, but I knew better. And I'm grateful for the chance to tell it here."

  Paul's World across from them--fake snow near blinding. Dieterling said, "Your father, Pierce and I were dreamers. Pierce's dreams were twisted, mine were kind and good. Your father's dreams were ruthless--as I suspect yours are. You should know that before you judge me."

  Ed leaned against a rail, settled in. Dieterling spoke to his mountain.

o        o          o

  1920.

  His first wife, Margaret, died in an automobile accident--she bore his son Paul. 1924--his second wife, Janice, gave birth to son Billy. While married to Margaret, he had an affair with a disturbed woman named Faye Borchard. She gave him son Douglas in 1917. He gave her money to keep the boy's existence secret--he was a rising young filmmaker, wished a life free of complications, was willing to pay for it. Only he and Faye knew the facts of Douglas' parentage. Douglas knew Ray Dieterling as a kindly friend.

  Douglas grew up with his mother; Dieterling visited frequently, a two-family life: wife Margaret dead, sons Paul and Billy ensconced with himself and wife Janice--a sad woman who went on to divorce him.

  Faye Borchard drank laudanum. She made Douglas watch pornographic cartoons that Raymond made for money, part of a Pierce Patchett scheme-cash to finance their legitimate dealings. The films were erotic, horrific--they featured flying monsters that raped and killed. The concept was Patchett's--he put his narcotic fantasies on paper, handed Ray Dieterling an inkwell. Douglas became obsessed with flight and its sexual possibilities.

  Dieterling loved his son Douglas--despite his rages and fits of strange behavior. He despised his son Paul--who was petty, tyrannical, stupid. Douglas and Paul greatly resembled each other.

  Ray Dieterling grew famous; Douglas Borchard grew wild. He lived with Faye, watched his father's cartoon nightmares-- birds plucking children out of schoolyards--Patchett fantasies painted on film. He grew into his teens stealing, torturing animals, hiding out in skid row strip shows. He met Loren Atherton on the row--that evil man found an accomplice.

  Atherton's obsession was dismemberment; Douglas' obsession was flight. They shared an interest in photography, were sexually aroused by children. They spawned the idea of creating children to their own specifications.

  They began killing and building hybrid children, photographing their works in progress. Douglas killed birds to provide wings for their creations. They needed a beautiful face; Douglas suggested Wee Willie Wennerholm's--it would be a kindly nod to kindly "Uncle Rat--whose early work he found so exciting. They snatched Wee Willie, butchered him.

  The newspapers called the child killer "Dr. Frankenstein"--it was assumed there was only one assailant. Inspector Preston Exley commanded the police investigation. He learned of Loren Atherton, a paroled child molester. He arrested Atherton, discovered his storage garage abattoir, his collection of photographs. Atherton confessed to the crimes, said that they were his work solely, did not implicate Douglas and stated his desire to die as the King of Death. The press lauded Inspector Exley, echoed his appeal: citizens with information on Atherton were asked to come forth as witnesses.

  Ray Dieterling visited Douglas. Alone in his room, he discovered a trunk full of slaughtered birds, a child's fingers packed in dry ice. He _knew_ immediately.

  And felt responsible--his quick-buck obscenities had created a monster. He confronted Douglas, learned that he might have been seen at the school near the time Wee Willie was kidnapped.

  Protective measures:

  A psychiatrist bribed to silence diagnosed Douglas: a psychotic personality, his disorder compounded by chemical brain imbalances. Remedy: the proper drugs applied for life to keep him docile. Ray Dieterling was friends with Pierce Patchett--a chemist who dabbled in such drugs. Pierce for inner protection--Pierce's friend Terry Lux for the outer.

  Lux cut Douglas a whole new face. Atherton's lawyer stalled the trial. Preston Exley kept looking for witnesses--a wellpublicized search. Ray Dieterling treaded panic--then formed a bold plan.

  He fed drugs to Douglas and young Miller Stanton. He coached them to say they saw Loren Atherton, alone, kidnap Wee Willie Wennerholm--they were afraid to come forth until now-- afraid Dr. Frankenstein would get them. The boys told Preston Exley their story; he believed them; they identified the monster. Atherton did not recognize his surgically altered friend.

  Two years passed. Loren Atherton was tried, convicted, executed. Terry Lux cut Douglas again--destroying his resemblance to the witness boy. Douglas lived in Pierce Patchett sedation, a room at a private hospital--guarded by male nurses. Ray Dieterling became even more successful. Then Preston Exley knocked on his door.

  His news: a young girl, older now, had come forth. She had seen Dieterling's son Paul with Loren Atherton--at the school the day Wee Willie was kidnapped.

  Dieterling knew it was really Douglas--his resemblance to Paul was that strong. He offered Exley a large amount of money to desist. Exley took the money--then attempted to return it. He said, "Justice. I want to arrest the boy."

  Dieterling saw his empire ruined. He saw the petty and mindless Paul exonerated. He saw Douglas somehow captured-- destroyed for the grief his art had spawned. He insisted that Exley keep the money--Exley did not protest. He asked him if there was no other way.

  Exley asked him if Paul was guilty.

  Raymond Dieterling said, "Yes."

  Preston Exley said, "Execution."

  Raymond Dieterling agreed.

  He took Paul camping in the Sierra Nevada. Preston Exley was waiting. They dosed the boy's food; Exley shot him in his sleep and buried him. The world thought Paul was lost in an avalanche--the world believed the lie. Dieterling thought he would hate the man. The price of justice on his face told him he was just another victim. They shared a bond now. Preston Exley gave up police work to build buildings with Dieterling seed money. When Thomas Exley was killed, Ray Dieterling was the first one he called. Together they built from the weight of their dead.

o        o          o

  Dieterling ended it. "And all of this is my rather pathetic happy ending."

  Mountains, rockets, rivers--they all seemed to smile. "My father never knew about Douglas? He really thought Paul was guilty?"

  "Yes. Will you forgive me? In your father's name."

  Ed took out a clasp. Gold oak-leafs--Preston Exley's inspector's insignia. A hand-me-down--Thomas got it first. "No. I'm going to submit a report to the county grand jury requesting that you be indicted for the murder of your son."

  "A week to get my affairs in order? Where could I run to, someone as famous as I am."

  Ed said, "Yes," walked to his car.

o        o          o

  The freeway model gone--replaced by campaign posters. Art De Spain unpacking leaflets, no arm bandage--a textbook bullet scar. "Hello, Eddie."

  "Where's Father?"

  "He'll be back soon. And congratulations on inspector. I should have called you, but things have been hectic around here."

  "Father hasn't called me either. You're all pretending everything's fine."

  "Eddie . . ."

  A bulge on Art's left hip-he still carried a piece. "I just spoke to Ray Dieterling."

  "We didn't think you would."

  "Give me your gun, Art."

  De Spain handed it over butt first. Silencer threads, S&W .38s.

  "Why?"

  "Eddie . .

  Ed dumped the shells. "Dieterling told me everything. And you were Father's exec back then."

  The man looked proud. "You know my M.O., Sunny Jim. It was for Preston. I've always been his loyal adjutant."

  "And you knew about Paul Dieterling."

  De Spain took his gun back. "Yes, and I've known for years that he wasn't the real killer. I got a tip back in '48 or so. It placed the kid somewhere else at the time of the Wennerholm snatch. I didn't know if Ray gave Paul over legitimately or not, and I couldn't break Preston's heart by telling him he killed an innocent boy. I couldn't upset his friendship with Ray--it just would have hurt him too much. You know how the Atherton case has always driven me. I've always had to know who killed those kids."

  "And you never found out."

  De Spain shook his head. "No."

  Ed said, "Get to the Englekling brothers."

  Art picked up a poster: Preston backdropped by building grids. "I was visiting the Bureau. I know it was '53, right in there. I saw these pictures on the Ad Vice board. Nice-looking kids, like a stag-shot daisy chain. The design reminded me of the pictures Loren Atherton took, and I knew that just Preston and I and a few other officers had seen them. I tried to track down the pictures and didn't get anywhere. A while later I heard how the Englekling brothers gave that smut testimony for the Nite Owl investigation, but you didn't follow up on it. I figured they were a lead, but I couldn't fmd them. Late last year I got a tip that they were working at this printshop up near Frisco. I went up to talk to them. All I wanted was to find out who made that smut."

  White's notes: God-awful torture. "Just to talk to them? I know what happened there."

  Awful pride glaring. "They took it for a shakedown. It went bad. They had some old smut negatives, and I tried to get them to ID the people. They had some heroin and some antipsychotic drugs. They said they knew a sugar daddy who was going to push some horse blend that would set the world on fire, but they could do better. They laughed at me, called me 'pops.' I got this notion that they had to know who made that smut. I don't know . . . I know I went crazy. I think I thought they killed all those children. I think I thought they'd hurt Preston somehow. Eddie, they _laughed_ at me. I figured they were dope pushers, I figured next to Preston they were nothing. And this old man took them both out."

  He'd fretted the poster to shreds. "You killed two men for nothing."

  "Not for nothing. For Preston. And I beg you not to tell him."

  "Just another victim"--maybe the victim that justice lets slide.

  "Eddie, he can't know. And he can't know that Paul Dieterling was innocent. Eddie, please."

  Ed pushed him aside, walked through the house. His mother's tapestries made him think of Lynn. His old room made him think of Bud and Jack. The house felt filthy--bad money bought and paid for. He walked downstairs, saw his father in the doorway.

  "Edmund?"

  "I'm arresting you for the murder of Paul Dieterling. I'll be by in a few days to take you in."

  The man did not budge an inch. "Paul Dieterling was a psychopathic killer who richly deserved the punishment I gave him."

  "He was innocent. And it's Murder One either way." Not one flicker of remorse. Unbudging, unyielding, unflinching, intractable rectitude. "Edmund, you're quite disturbed at this moment."

  Ed walked past him. His goodbye: "Goddamn you for the bad things you made me."

o        o          o

  Downtown to the Dining Car: a bright place full of nice people. Gallaudet at the bar, sipping a martini. "Bad news on Dudley. You don't want to hear this."

  "It can't be any worse than some other things I've heard today."

  "Yeah? Well, Dudley's scot-free. Lana Turner's daughter just knifed Johnny Stompanato. D.O. fucking A. Fisk was staked out across the street and saw the meat wagon and the Beverly Hills P.D. take Johnny away. No Dudley witness, no Dudley evidence. Grand, lad."

  Ed grabbed the martini, killed it. "Fuck Dudley sideways. I've got a shitload of Patchett's money for a bankroll, and I'll burn down that Irish cocksucker if it's the last fucking thing I ever do. Lad."

  Gallaudet laughed. "May I make an observation, Inspector?"

  "Sure."

  "You sound more like Bud White every day."

CALENDAR

APRIL 1958

EXTRACT: L.A. _Times_, April 12:

GRAND JURY REVIEWS NITE OWL

EVIDENCE; DECLARES CASE CLOSED

  Almost five years to the day after the crime, the City and County of Los Angeles bid official farewell to the Southland's "Crime of the Century," the infamous Nite Owl murder case.

  On April 16, 1953, three gunmen entered the Nite Owl Coffee Shop on Hollywood Boulevard and shotgunned three employees and three patrons to death. Robbery was the assumed motive, and suspicion soon fell on three Negro youths, who were arrested on suspicion of the crime. The three: Raymond Coates, Tyrone Jones and Leroy Fontaine, escaped from jail and were killed resisting arrest. The three allegedly confessed to District Attorney Ellis Loew prior to their escape, and the case was assumed to have been solved.

  Four years and ten months later, a San Quentin inmate, Otis John Shortell, came forward with information that led many to believe that the three youths were innocent of the Nite Owl killings. Shortell said that he was in the presence of Coates, Jones and Fontaine while they were engaged in the gang rape of a young woman, at the exact time of the coffee shop slaughter. Shortell's testimony, verified by lie detector tests, created a public clamor to reopen the case.

  The clamor was fanned by the February 25 murders of Peter and Baxter Englekling. The brothers, convicted narcotics traffickers, were material witnesses to the 1953 Nite Owl investigation and asserted at that time that the killings originated from a web of intrigue involving pornography. The Englekling killings remain unsolved. In the words of Mann County Sheriff's Lieutenant Eugene Hatcher, "No leads at all. But we're still trying."

  The Nite Owl case was reopened, and an involved pornography link was revealed. On March 27, wealthy investor Pierce Morehouse Patchett was shot and killed at his Brentwood home, and two days later police shot and killed Abraham Teitlebaum, 49, and Lee Peter Vachss, 44, his assumed slayers. Later that day the infamous "Blue Denim Massacre" occurred. Among the criminal dead: Burt Arthur "Deuce" Perkins, a nightclub singer with underworld ties. Teitlebaum, Vachss and Perkins were assumed to be the Nite Owl killers. LAPD Captain Dudley Smith elaborated.

  "The Nite Owl killings derived from a grandly realized scheme to distribute heinous and souldestroying pornographic filth. Teitlebaum, Vachss and Perkins were attempting to kill Nite Owl patron Delbert 'Duke' Cathcart, an independent smut merchant, and take over Pierce Patchett's smut racket in the process. Alas, it was really one Dean Van Gelder, a criminal impersonating Cathcart, who was there in Cathcart's place. The Nite Owl murder case will go down as a testimony to the cruel caprices of fate, and I am glad that it has finally been resolved."

  Then Captain, now Inspector Edmund Exley, credited with solving the Nite Owl reopening case, said that it has finally been resolved, despite rumors that a fourth conspirator died abruptly, just as he was about to be arrested. "That's nonsense," Exley said. "I gave the county grand jury a detailed brief on the case and testified extensively myself They accepted my findings. It's over."

  At some great cost. LAPD Chief of Detectives Thad Green, soon to retire and assume command of the U.S. Border Patrol, said, "For sheer expense and the number of accumulated investigatory man-hours, the Nite Owl case has no equal. It was a once-in-a-lifetime case and the price for clearing it was very, very high."

EXTRACT: L.A. _Mirror-News_, April 15:

LOEW RESIGNATION A SHOCKER;

    LEGAL CROWD BUZZES

  Speculation in Southland legal circles rages: why did Los Angeles District Attorney Ellis Loew resign from office yesterday and scotch a brilliant political career? Loew, 49, announced his resignation at his regular weekly press conference, citing nervous exhaustion and a desire to return to private practice. Aides close to the man described the abrupt retirement as stupefyingly atypical. The D.A.'s Office is stunned: Ellis Loew appeared happy, fit and in perfect health.

  Chief Criminal Prosecutor Robert Gallaudet told this reporter: "Look, I'm stunned, and I don't stun easily. What's Ellis' underlying motive? I don't know, ask him. And when the City Council appoints an interim D.A., I hope it's me."

  After the shock waves subsided, plaudits rolled in. LAPD Chief William H. Parker described Loew as a "vigorous and fair-minded foe of criminals," and Parker's aide, Captain Dudley Smith, said, "We'll miss Ellis. He was a grand friend of justice." Governor Knight and Mayor Norris Poulson sent Loew telegrams asking him to reconsider his decision. Loew himself could not be reached for comment.

EXTRACT: L.A. _Herald-Express_, April 19:

DREAM-A-DREAMLAND SUICIDES: GRIEF,

     BEWILDERMENT CONTINUE

  They were found together at Dream-a-Dreamland, temporarily closed to mourn the death of a great man's son. Preston Exley, 64, former Los Angeles policeman, master builder and neophyte politician; Inez Soto, 28, publicity director at the world's most celebrated amusement complex and a key witness in the awful Nite Owl murder case. And Raymond Dieterling, 66, the father of modern animation, the genius who virtually created the cartoon art form, the man who built Dreama-Dreamland as a tribute to a child tragically lost. The world at large and Los Angeles in particular have expressed great grief and bewilderment.

  They were found last week, together, on Dreama-Dreamland's Grand Promenade. There were no notes, but County Coroner Frederic Newbarr quickly ruled out foul play and established the deaths as suicides. The means: all three had ingested fatal quantities of a rare antipsychotic drug. Expressions of grief greeted the news--President Eisenhower, Governor Knight and Senator William Knowland were among those who offered condolences to the loved ones of the three. Exley and Dieterling left fortunes: the building magnate willed his construction kingdom to his longtime aide Arthur De Spain and his $1 7-million financial estate to his son Edmund, a Los Angeles police officer. Dieterling left his more than vast holdings to a legal trust, with instructions to disperse the funds and future Dream-a-Dreamland profits among various children's charities. With the legalities taken care of and public shock and bereavement hardly abating, speculation into the motives for the suicides began to rage.

  Miss Soto was romantically linked to Preston Exley's son Edmund and had been despondent over recent publicity pertaining to her involvement in the Nite Owl case. Raymond Dieterling was distraught over the recent murder of his son William. Preston Exley, however, had recently celebrated his greatest triumph, the completion of the Southern California mass freeway system, and had just announced his candidacy in the governor's race. A poll conducted shortly before his death showed him gaining and favored to win the Republican nomination. There seems to be no logical motive for the man to take his own life. Those closest to Preston Exley--Arthur De Spain and son Edmund-- have refused comment.

  Letters of sympathy and floral tributes flood Dream-a-Dreamland and Preston Exley's Hancock Park home. Flags fly at half mast throughout the State of California. Hollywood grieves the loss of a moviemaking colossus. The single word "Why?" rests on millions of lips.

  Preston Exley and Ray Dieterling were giants. Inez Soto was a spunky hard-luck girl who became their trusted aide and close friend. Before their deaths, all three added codicils to their wills, stating that they wished to be buried at sea together. Yesterday they were, summarily, with no religious service and no guests in attendance. The Dream-a-Dreamland security chief handled the arrangements and would not disclose the location where the bodies were laid to rest. The word "Why?" still rests on millions of lips.

  Mayor Norris Poulson doesn't know why. But he does offer a fitting eulogy. "Very simply, these two men symbolized the fulfillment of a vision--Los Angeles as a place of enchantment and high-quality everyday life. More than anyone else, Raymond Dieterling and Preston Exley personified the grand and good dreams that have built this city."

PART FIVE

     After You've Gone

CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

  Ed in his dress blue uniform.

  Parker smiled, pinned gold stars to his shoulders. "Deputy Chief Edmund Exley. Chief of Detectives, Los Angeles Police Department."

  Applause, flashbulbs. Ed shook Parker's hand, checked the crowd. Politicos, Thad Green, Dudley Smith. Lynn at the back of the room.

  More applause, a handshake line. Mayor Poulson, Gallaudet, Dudley.

  "Lad, you have performed so grandly. I look forward to serving under you."

  "Thank you, Captain. I'm sure we'll have a grand time together."

  Dudley winked.

  The City Council filed by; Parker led the crowd to refreshments. Lynn stayed in the doorway.

  Ed walked over. Lynn said, "I can't believe it. I'm giving up a hotshot with seventeen million dollars for a cripple with a pension. Arizona, love. The air's good for pensioners and I know where everything is."

  She'd aged the past month--beautiful to handsome. "When?"

  "Right now, before I back down."

  "Open your purse."

  "What?"

  "Just do it."

  Lynn opened her purse--Ed dropped in a plastic bundle. "Spend it fast, it's bad money."

  "How much?"

  "Enough to buy Arizona. Where's White?"

  "At the car."

  "I'll walk you."

  They skirted the party, took side stairs down. Lynn's Packard in the watch commander's space, a summons stuck to the windshield. Ed tore it up, checked the back seat.

  Bud White. Braces on his legs, his head shaved and sutured. No splints on his hands--they looked strong. A wired-up mouth that made him look goofy.

  Lynn stood a few feet away. White tried to smile, grimaced. Ed said, "I swear to you I'll get Dudley. I swear to you I'll do it."

  White grabbed his hands, squeezed until they both winced. Ed said, "Thanks for the push."

  A smile, a laugh--Bud forced them through wires. Ed touched his face. "You were my redemption."

  Party noise upstairs--Dudley Smith laughing. Lynn said, "We should go now."

  "Was I ever in the running?"

  "Some men get the world, some men get ex-hookers and a trip to Arizona. You're in with the former, but my God I don't envy you the blood on your conscience."

  Ed kissed her cheek. Lynn got in the car, rolled up the windows. Bud pressed his hands to the glass.

  Ed touched his side, palms half the man's size. The car moved--Ed ran with it, hands against hands. A turn into traffic, a goodbye toot on the horn.

  Gold stars. Alone with his dead.