Karen slept curled away from him--covered tight like she thought he might hit her. Jack watched her while he dressed; his last two days hit him.
He was off the Nite Owl, back to Ad Vice. Ed Exley's interrogations tentatively cleared the spooks--pending questioning of the woman they'd been abusing. Bud White played some Russian roulette--the three clammed up. So far, there was no way to know if they had time to leave the woman, drive to the Nite Owl, return to Darktown and gang-rape. Maybe Coates or Fontaine left Jones in charge of the girl and pulled the snuffs with other partners. No luck finding the shotguns; Coates' purple Merc was still missing. No restaurant loot found at their hotel; the debris in the incinerator too far gone for blood-on-fabric analysis. The perfume on the jigs' hands skunked a late paraffin test. Huge pressure at the Bureau: solve the fucking case fast.
The coroner was trying to ID the patron victims, working from dental abstracts and their physical stats cross-checked against missing persons bulletins, call-ins. Made: the cook/dishwasher, waitress, cash register girl; nothing yet on the three customers, the autopsies showed no sexual abuse on the women. Maybe Coates/Jones/Fontaine weren't the triggers; Dudley Smith on the job--his men bracing armed robbers, nuthouse parolees, every known L.A. geek with a gun jacket. The news vendor who spotted the purple Merc across from the Nite Owl was requestioned; now he said it could have been a Ford or a Chevy. Ford and Chevy registrations being checked; now the park ranger who ID'd the spooks said he wasn't sure. Ed Exley told Green and Parker the purple car might have been placed by the Nite Owl to put the onus on the jigs; Dudley pooh-poohed the theory--he said it was probably just a coincidence. A sure-thing case unraveling into a shitload of possibilities.
Huge press coverage--Sid Hudgens had already called--zero hink on the smut, nothing like "We've _all_ got secrets." A heroic version of the arrests for fifty scoots--Sid hung up quick.
The Nite Owl cost him a day on the smut. He'd checked the squadroom postings: no leads, none of the other men tracked the skit. He filed a phony report himself: nothing on Christine Bergeron and Bobby Inge, nothing on the other mags he found: Nothing on his filth dreams: his sweetheart Karen orgied up.
Jack kissed Karen's neck, hoping she'd wake up and smile.
No luck.
o o o
Canvassing first.
Charleville Drive, questions, no luck: none of the tenants in Christine Bergeron's building heard the woman and her son move out; none knew a thing about the men she entertained. The adjoining apartment houses--ditto straight across. Jack called Beverly Hills High, learned that Daryl Bergeron was a chronic truant who hadn't attended classes in a week; the vice-principal said the boy kept to himself, didn't cause trouble--he was never in school _to_ cause trouble. Jack didn't tell him Daryl was too tired to cause trouble: fucking your mother on roller skates takes a lot out of a kid.
His next calclass="underline" Stan's Drive-in. The manager told him Chris Bergeron splitsvilled day before yesterday, two seconds after getting a phone call. No, he didn't know who the caller was; yes, he would buzz Sergeant Vmcennes if she showed up; no, Chris did not unduly fraternize with customers or receive visitors while carhopping.
Out to West Hollywood.
Bobby Inge's place, talks--fellow tenants and neighbors. Bobby paid his rent on time, kept to himself, nobody saw him move out. The swish next door said he "played the field--he wasn't seeing anyone in particular." Tweaks: "smut books," "Chris Bergeron," "this little twist Daryl"--the fruit deadpanned him cold.
Call West Hollywood dead--after B.J.'s Rumpus Room Bobby wouldn't be caught near the fag-bar strip. Jack grabbed a hamburger, checked his Inge rap sheet--no K.A.'s listed. He studied his private filth stash, hard to concentrate, the contradictions in the pictures kept distracting him.
Attractive posers, trashy backdrops. Beautiful costumes that made you look twice at disgusting homo action. Artful orgy shots: inked-in blood, bodies connected over quilts--pix that made you squint to see female forms held in check by too much explicitness--the sex organ extravaganza made you want to see the women plain nude. The shit was pornography manufactured for money--but somewhere in the process an artist was involved.
A brainstorm.
Jack drove to a dime store, bought scissors, Scotch tape, a drawing pad. He worked in the car: faces cut from the mags, taped to the paper, men and women separated, repeats placed together to make IDs easier. Downtown to the Bureau for matchups: stag pix to Caucasian mug books. Four hours of squinting: eyestrain, zero identifications. Over to Hollywood Station, their separate Vice mugs, another zero; the West Hollywood Sheriff's Substation made zero number three. Bobby Inge aside, his smut beauties were virgins--no criminal records.
4:30 P.M.--Jack felt his options dwindling fast. Another idea caught: check Bobby Inge through the DMV; check Chris Bergeron through again--a complete paper prowl. R&I/Inge one more time--updates on his sheet.
He hit a pay phone, made the calls. Bobby Inge was DMV clean: no citations, no court appearances. Complete Bergeron paper: traffic violation dates, the names of her surety bond guarantors. R&I's only Inge update: a year-old bail report. One name crossed over--Bergeron to Inge.
Bail on an Inge prostie charge--fronted by Sharon Kostenza, 1649 North Havenhurst, West Hollywood. The same woman paid a Bergeron reckless-driving bond.
Jack called R&I back, ran Sharon Kostenza and her address through--no California criminal record. He told the clerk to check the forty-eight-state list; that took a full ten minutes. "Sorry, Sarge. Nothing at all on the name."
Back to the DMV; a shocker: no one named Sharon Kostenza possessed or had ever possessed a California driver's license. Jack drove to North Havenhurst--the address 1649 did not exist.
Brain circuits: prostie Bobby Inge, Kostenza bailed him on a prostie beef, prosties used phony names, prosties posed for stag pix. North Havenhurst a longtime call-house block-- He started knocking on doors.
A dozen quickie interviews; tags on nearby fuck joints. Two, on Havenhurst: 1611, 1564.
6:10 P.M.
1611 open for business; the boss deadpanned Sharon Kostenza, Bobby Inge, the Bergerons. Ditto the faces clipped from the fuck mags--the girls working the joint panned out likewise. The madam at 1564 cooperated--the names and faces were Greek to her and her whores.
Another burger, back to West Hollywood Substation. A run through the alias file: another flat busted dead end.
7:20--no more names to check. Jack drove to North Hamel, parked with a view: Bobby Inge's door.
He kept a fix on the courtyard. No foot traffic, street traffic slow--the Strip wouldn't jump for hours. He waited: smoking, smut pictures in his head.
At 8:46 a quiff ragtop cruised by--a slow trawl close to the curb. Twenty minutes later--one more time. Jack tried to read plate numbers--nix, too dark out. A hunch: he's looking for window lights. If he's looking for Bobby's, he's got them.
He walked into the courtyard, lucked oUt on witnesses--none. Handcuff ratchets popped the door: teeth cutting cheap wood. He felt for a wall light, tripped a switch.
The same cleaned-out living room; the pad in the same disarray. Jack sat by the door, waited.
Boredom time stretched--fifteen minutes, thirty, an hour. Knocks on the front windowpane.
Jack drew down: the door, eye-level. He faked a fag lilt: "It's open."
A pretty boy sashayed in. Jack said, "Shit." Timmy Valburn, a.k.a. Moochie Mouse--Billy Dieterling's squeeze.
"Timmy, what the fuck are you doing here?"
Valburn slouched, one hip cocked, no fear. "Bobby's a friend. He doesn't use narcotics, if that's what you're here for. And isn't this a tad out of your jurisdiction?"