It was a hot, smoggy day, and it didn't faze me in the least. I drove downtown feeling buoyant with anticipation, and parked in front of the Havana Hotel, an old, one-story red brick building with a rickety elevator in its small entrance foyer. It was 7:59 by my watch, so I leaped the stairs three at a time, knocking on the door of room 16 at exactly eight o'clock.
A stocky blond man in a short-sleeved white shirt and a shoulder holster opened it. I held out my badge to gain entrance and he nodded me inside. Dudley Smith and another man were in the middle of the dingy little room, hunched over a folding card table.
Smith looked over his shoulder and greeted me. "Freddy! Laddy! Welcome! Let me make the introductions—gentlemen, this is Officer Fred Underhill, my newest protégé. Fred, meet Sergeant Mike Breuning," he nodded toward the stocky blond man. "And Officer Dick Carlisle," he nodded toward the other man, a tall, thin, sallowfaced man with wire-rimmed glasses. I shook hands with my new colleagues and exchanged pleasantries with them until Dudley Smith cleared his throat loudly and called for our attention.
"Enough horseshit," he said. "Freddy, tell Mike and Dick your story. Omit nothing. Here, stand up in back of this table like a good toastmaster. Ahhh, yes, that's grand."
Breuning and Carlisle pulled up chairs while I assumed my position behind the folding table. Smith sat on the bed, smoking and sipping coffee and smiling at me. It took me fifteen minutes to recount my tale. I could tell that Breuning and Carlisle were impressed. They looked to Dudley Smith for confirmation, almost doglike in their deference to the big cop.
He smiled at them. "Ahhh, yes. A real live degenerate womankiller. Comments, lads? Questions?"
Carlisle and Breuning shook their heads.
"Freddy?" Smith asked.
"Only one, Dudley. When do we start?"
"Ha-ha-ha! Grand! We start now, lad. Now listen: here are your assignments. Mike, you will go immediately to Horn Drive. You will tail Eddie Engels. You will go with him all day and all night until he returns home to sleep. If he picks up any women, you will stay very close. Do you get my meaning, lad? This beast must claim no more victims. Freddy, you will go to Horn Drive, too. You will question people on that street about their degenerate neighbor. I want names and addresses for any eyewitnesses to violence or abuse on Engels's part. Take the whole day on this. Dick, you go to Wilshire Station and talk to Sergeant Joe DiCenzo. Talk to him about the Leona Jensen killing. Tell Joe that I'm working on this investigation on my own time—he'll understand. Read the reports on the caper—coroner, dicks' log sheets, property, everything. Take notes. I'll be doing the digging into Eddie-boy's background myself. We'll meet here tomorrow, same time. Now go to work and God be with you!" Dudley Smith clapped his big hands, thunderously indicating dismissal.
Breuning and Carlisle filed out the door, looking grimly determined. I was about to follow them when Dudley Smith grabbed my arm. "You call me this afternoon at the bureau, lad. About four o'clock."
"Sure, Dudley," I said.
Smith squeezed my arm very hard, then gently shoved me out the door.
Breuning was standing on the sidewalk, apparently waiting for me. "Since we're both going out to the Strip, I thought I could follow you," he said.
"Sure," I said. "Where's your car?"
"Around the corner." Breuning was doing a little nervous shuffle.
I could tell there was something he wanted to say. I tried to make it easy for him. "How long have you been on the job, Mike?"
"Eleven years. You?"
"Four."
"That must have been a tough nut, shooting those two Mexicans."
"I don't think about it too much."
"I was wondering. Dudley likes you, you know that?"
"I guess so. Why do you mention it?"
Breuning's stolid German face darkened. "Because I noticed the way you were looking at him. Studying him like he was kind of a crazy man. A lot of people think Dudley's nuts, but he's not. He's nuts like a fox."
"I believe you. He's just an actor, and a damn good one. He's good at firing people up. That's his gift."
"Right. He wants this guy Engels, though. Bad."
"I know. He told me. He hates woman-killers."
"It's more than that. You have to know Dudley. I know him real well. Since I was a rookie. He's still pissed off about the Dahlia. He told me the Engels case is his penance for not catching the guy who sliced her."
I gave that some thought. "He wasn't in charge of the entire investigation, Mike. The whole L.A.P.D. and sheriffs department couldn't find the killer. It wasn't Dudley's fault."
"I know, but he took it that way. He's a religious man, and he's taking the Engels thing real personal. The reason I'm bringing all this up is that Dudley wants to make you his number one man. He says you've got the stuff to go all the way in the department. That's no skin off my ass, I like being a sergeant in the bureau. But you've got to play it Dudley's way. I can tell you're not scared of him, and that's bad. If you cross him, he'll fuck you for real. That's what I wanted to tell you."
I smiled at the admonition. It increased my respect for Dudley Smith, and my respect for Mike Breuning for mentioning it. "Thanks, Mike," I said.
"You're welcome. Now let's hotfoot it over to the Strip. I'm getting itchy to start."
Mike got his car and pulled up behind me. I drove straight out Wilshire, hoping that Eddie Engels was still a late sleeper, so that Mike would have someone to tail. I turned north on La Cienega. Mike was right behind me as I turned onto the Strip ten minutes later. Horn Drive came up, and I pulled over to the curb and pointed out Engels's bungalow and Olds sedan. Mike smiled and gave me the thumbs-up sign. I waved and drove up the hill, parked the car and set out on foot to do my questioning.
I knocked on the doors of bungalow huts, well-tended cottages, French chateau walk-up apartments, artist's dives, and miniature Moorish castles and got a succession of blank looks, yawns, and bored shakes of the head. "Sorry, I can't help you, Officer." Eddie the phantom. This consumed five hours. At two o'clock I walked down to the diner on the corner of Horn and Sunset and ordered two cheeseburgers, French fries, a salad, and a jumbo pineapple malt. I was famished—and nervous about my meeting with Lorna Weinberg.
The man who served me at the counter looked like a jaded soda jerk out of hell. He slouched in front of me while I tore into my salad, alternately picking his teeth and his nose. We were obviously destined to converse—it was only a question of who would speak first. It was me, out of necessity. "Get me some ketchup, will you?"
"Sure, buddy," the counterman said, handing me a bottle of Heinz's and leaning over to breathe on me. "You with the sheriff's?" he asked. That was interesting.
"L.A.P.D.," I said. "You an ex-con?"
"I been clean for six years. Topped out my parole, knock wood." The guy made an elaborate show of rapping his knuckles on the countertop.
"I congratulate you," I said. "How long have you been working this joint?"
"Two years on the job. Knock wood."
"You know the locals pretty well?"
"Local yokels or regular customers?"
"Very astute. I mean people who live in the neighborhood who frequent this place."
"Oh." The man's eyes narrowed into a con-wise squint. "You got any particular locals in mind?"
"Yeah. A guy named Eddie. A handsome guy about thirty. Curly brown hair. Brown eyes. Sharp dresser. A lover-boy. Always a good-looking tomato in tow. You know him?"
The counterman's eyes remained impassive. When I finished, he nodded, almost imperceptibly. "Yeah, I think so."
I came on strong. "I'm a police officer and a big tipper. Tell me."
He looked around for prying ears. There weren't any. "Okay—you got it right. Smooth boy. Lover-boy. I should get the dames I seen that bastard with. Listen, Officer—"