"Fine work, Mike," Dudley said, reaching over from his straightbacked chair to give Breuning a fatherly pat on the shoulder. "Dick, lad, what have you to say?"
The cold-eyed, bespectacled Carlisle said resolutely, "All I know is that Engels is a cold-blooded killer and a smart son of a bitch. I say we grab him before he gets smart and knocks off another dame."
Dudley surveyed all of us in the tiny hotel room. "I think we all concur on that, don't you, men?" he said. We all nodded. "Are there any questions then, lads?"
"When do we file our reports with the D.A.?" I asked.
Breuning and Carlisle laughed.
"When Eddie Engels confesses, lad," Dudley said.
"What jail are we booking him into, then?"
Dudley looked to his more experienced underlings for support. They looked at me and shook their heads, then looked back to Dudley in awe.
"Lad, there will be no official police sanctions or paperwork until Eddie Engels confesses. Tomorrow morning at five-forty-five A.M., we will rendezvous in front of handsome Eddie's courtyard. I will drive my car. Mike, you will pick up Dick and Freddy. Mike and Dick, you will carry shotguns. Freddy, bring your service revolver. At five minutes of six we will kick in Eddie's door. We will subdue him, and put the fear of God into any colleen or homo who might be sharing his bed, then send them on their way. I have an interrogation place set up, an abandoned motel in Gardena. Freddy, Dick, Engels, and I will travel in my car. Mike will follow in his. This is apt to be a long interrogation, lads, so spend some time with your loved ones tonight and tell them you may not be seeing them for a while. Now, stand up, lads."
We did, in a little semicircle.
"Now all put your hands on top of mine."
We did.
"Now, lads, say a little silent prayer for our clandestine operation."
Breuning and Carlisle closed their eyes reverently. I did, too, for a brief moment. When I opened them I saw Dudley staring straight ahead past all of us to some distant termination point.
"Amen," he said finally, and winked at me.
Lorna's apartment was a block south of Wilshire near the Beverly Hills business district, and it was a perfect testament to her pride and competence; a neat, one-bedroom affair with subdued, expensive furnishings that reflected the things she held close—a sense of order and propriety, and a nonhysterical concern for the great unwashed. The place was a clearinghouse for her professional interests: the shelves were crammed with law texts and volumes and volumes of statute books for both California and the rest of the nation. There was a big cherry-wood desk placed diagonally into the corner of the living room that held her giant dictionary as well as scores of official-looking papers separated neatly into four piles.
The apartment was also a clearinghouse for wonder, and I tingled with pride as Lorna took me on a guided tour and gave me rundowns on the wonder-filled framed prints that hung on her walls. There was a Hieronymus Bosch painting that represented insanity—hysterical grotesque creatures in an undersea environment importuning God—or someone—for release from their madness. There was a Van Gogh job that featured flowery fields juxtaposed against brown grass and a somber sky. There was Edward Hopper's "Nighthawks"—three lonely people sitting in an all-night diner, not talking. It was awesome and filled with lonely wonder.
I took Lorna's hand and kissed it. "You know the wonder, Lorna," I said.
"What's the wonder?"
"I don't know, just the wonderful elliptical, mysterious stuff that we're never going to know completely."
Lorna nodded. She knew. "And that's why you're a cop?"
"Exactly."
"But I want justice. The wonder is for artists and writers and other creative people. Their vision gives us the compassion to face our own lives and treat other people decently, because we know how imperfect the world is. But I want justice. I want specifics. I want to be able to look at the people I send to court and say, 'He's guilty, let the will of the people reflect that guilt' or 'He's guilty with mitigating circumstances, let the will of the people reflect the mercy I recommend' or 'He's innocent, no grand jury trial for him.' I want to be able to see the results, not wonder."
We moved to a large, floral-print couch and sat down. Lorna stroked my hair tentatively. "Do you understand, Fred?"
"Yes, I do. Especially now. I want justice for Eddie Engels. He'll get it. But the grand jury system is predicated on people, and people are imperfect and wonder-driven; so justice is no kind of absolute—it's subservient to wonder."
"Which is why I work so hard. Nothing is perfect, even the law."
"Yeah, I know." I paused and fished in my coat pocket for a large manila envelope. "We're arresting Eddie Engels tomorrow, Lorna." I handed her the sealed envelope. "This is my report as the arresting officer."
She looked into my eyes and squeezed my hand. "You look worried," she said.
"I'm not, really. But I need a favor."
"What?"
"Don't open that envelope until I call you. Just forget about this case until I call you. And when Dudley Smith files with you, know this: my report is the truth. If there are discrepancies, see me. We'll build the case for the grand jury. All right?"
Lorna hesitated. "All right. You're putting yourself out on a big limb, Freddy."
"I know."
"And you want Engels more for your career than for justice."
"Yes." I said it almost apologetically.
"I don't care. I care about you, and Engels is guilty. You see to your career and I'll see to justice and we'll both get what we want."
I laughed nervously at the imperfect logic of it. Lorna took my hand. "And you're afraid of Dudley Smith."
"He's out of his mind. He's got no business being a policeman."
"Ha! The imperfection, the wonder, remember?"
"Touché, Lorna."
"Where are you booking Engels?"
Lorna saw my face cloud over. "I don't know," I said.
We stared at each other, and I knew she knew. Her whole body stiffened and she painfully hoisted herself to her feet and said, "I'll get dinner started."
Lorna hopped the ten or so steps to the kitchen without her cane. I stayed on the couch. I heard the refrigerator door open and shut and the clatter of cooking utensils being pulled out of cupboards. There was a nervous silence, and when I couldn't take it any longer I went into the kitchen, where Lorna stood leaning against the sink, distractedly fingering a saucepan. I wrenched it out of her hands. She resisted, but I was stronger. I hurled it against the wall where it clattered and fell to the floor. Lorna threw herself at me in a fierce embrace. She pummeled my shoulders with her fists and moaned deeply. I pried her chin from my chest and kissed her, lifting her off her feet. She started to resist, banging my shoulders even harder, but then thought better of it and stopped. I carried her into the bedroom.
Afterward, after the coupling, sated and aware of a new beginning, I started to search for words to make the future right, to make it multiply endlessly on this moment. "About Eddie En—" was all I got out before Lorna pressed gentle fingertips to my mouth to stop me.
"It's all right, Fred. It's all right."