"Lad, you have your extracurricular secrets, I have mine. We'll hold a clarification session soon."
GO. "No. I just want to know where we both stand on the Nite Owl. _Now_."
"Edmund Exley, lad. We both stand there."
"What?"--scared to his own ears.
"_Edmund Jennings Exley_. He's been your raison d'être since Bloody Christmas, and he's why you don't tell me certain things. I love you, so I respect your omissions. Now reciprocate my love and respect my lack of clarification for the next twelve days and you'll see him destroyed."
"'What are you--" a little kid's voice.
"You've never accorded him credit, so I'll tell you now. As a man he's less than negligible, but as a detective he far exceeds even myself. There. God and yourself witness plaudits for a man I despise. Now will you respect my omissions--as I respect yours?"
Past GO. "No. Just fucking tell me what you want me to do. Just explain it."
Dudley laughed, smiled. "Do nothing for now but listen. I've found out that Thad Green will be retiring to take over the U.S. Border Patrol later this spring. Our new chief of detectives will be either Edmund Exley or myself. His upcoming inspectorship gives Exley the inside track, and Parker favors him personally. I plan on using certain aspects of our mutually withheld evidence to clear the Nite Owl posthaste, establish myself as the new front-runner and ruin Exley in the process. Lad, bear with me for a few more days and I'll guarantee you your own personal revenge."
The deal was Exley/Dudley vs. Exley.
No contest.
Past GO: the crumbs he spilled to Exley, Exley's promise-- liaison, the hooker snuffs. "Boss, is there a carrot in this for me?"
"Besides our friend's downfall?"
"Yeah."
"And in exchange for a full disclosure? Beyond what you gave Exley as part of your field runner agreement?"
Jesus, what the man knew. "Right."
Ho Ho Ho. "Lad, you drive a hard bargain, but will a Chief of Detectives' Special Inquiry suffice? Say 187 P.C. multiple, various jurisdictions?"
Bud stuck out his hand. "Deal."
Dudley said, "Stay away from Exley and treat yourself to a grand clean room at the Victory. I'll be by to see you in a day or so.,,
"You take the car, I got business in Frisco first."
o o o
He blew forty bucks on a cab, cruised the Golden Gate high on adrenaline. Double cross: a bad deal to survive, then a good deal to win--up from the minors to the majors. Exley had insider tips and sad Trashcan Jack; Dudley had insider juice that almost went psychic. Turnaround: he lied to Dudley to burn down Exley; five years later the man calls it in: lies forgiven, two cops, one torch. San Francisco bright in the distance, Dudley Smith's voice: "Edmund Jennings Exley." Chills just saying the name.
Over the bridge, a stop at a pay phone. Long-distance: Lynn's number, ten rings, no answer. 9:10 P.M., a spooker--she should have been home from the Bureau by dark.
Across town for the drop-off: San Francisco Police Department, Detective Division HQ. Bud pinned on his badge, walked in.
Homicide on floor three--arrows painted on the wall pointed him up. Creaky stairs, a huge squad bay. Nightwatch lulclass="underline" two men up by the coffee.
They walked over. The younger guy pointed to his shield. "L.A., huh? Help you with something?"
Bud held his ID out. "You've got an old 187, like one a pal of mine on the L.A. Sheriff's caught. He asked me to check out your case file."
"Well, the captain's not here now. Maybe you should try in the morning."
The older man checked his ID. "You're the guy that's bugs on prostie jobs. The captain said you keep calling up and you're a royal pain in the keester. What's the matter, you got another one?"
"Yeah, Lynette Ellen Kendrick, L.A. County last week. Come on, ten minutes with the file and I'm out of your hair."
The young guy: "Hey, catch the drift? The captain wanted you to see the file, he woulda sent you an invitation."
The old guy: "The captain's a jack-off. What's our victim's name and DOD?"
"Chrissie Virginia Renfro, July 16, '56."
"Well then, I'll tell you what you do. You hit the records room around the corner, find your 1956 unsolved cabinet and go to the R's. You don't take anything out and you skedaddle before junior here has a migraine. Got it?"
"Got it."
o o o
Autopsy pictures: orifice rips, facial close-ups--pulp, no real face, ring fragments embedded in cheekbones. Wide-angle shots: the body, found at Chrissie's pad--a dive across from the St. Francis Hotel.
Pervert shakedown reports--local deviates brought in, questioned, released for lack of evidence. Foot fuckers, sadist pimps, Chrissie's pimp himself--in the Frisco City Jail when Chrissie was snuffed. Panty sniffers, rape-o's, Chrissie's regular johns--all alibied up, no names that crossed to the other case files he'd read.
Canvassing reports: local yokels, guests at the St. Francis. Six loser sheets, a grabber.
7/16/56: a St. Francis bellhop told detectives he caught Spade Cooley's late show at the hotel's Lariat Room, then saw Chrissie Virginia Renfro, weaving--"maybe on hop"--walk into her building.
Grabber--Bud sat still, worked it up.
Grab Lynette Ellen Kendrick, DOD L.A. County last week. Grab an unrelated snitch--Lamar Hinton stooling everything in sight. Grabs: Dwight Gilette--Kathy Janeway's ex-pimp----supplied whores for Spade Cooley's parties. Spade was an opium smoker, a "degenerate dope fiend." Spade was in L.A., playing the El Rancho Klub on the Strip-a mile from Lynette Kenthick's pad.
First glitch: Spade couldn't have a jacket, no way to check his blood type--he rode in Sheriff Biscailuz' volunteer posse--P.R. stuff--nobody with a yellow sheet allowed.
Keep grabbing, check the M.E.'s report, "Bloodstream Contents." Page 2, a scorcher--"undigested foodstuffs, semen, a heavily narcotizing amount of food-dispersed opium further verified by tar residue in teeth."
Bud threw his arms up-like he could reach through the roof and haul down the moon. He banged the ceiling, came back to earth thinking--this was not a solo job, he was hiding out from Exley, Dudley just didn't care. He saw a phone, hit the ceiling, came down with a partner:
Ellis Loew--sex murders made him drool.
He grabbed the phone.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Hilda Lefferts tapped a mugshot. "There, that's Susan Nancy's beau. Will you take me home now?"
Bingo--a pudgy hardcase type, a real Duke Cathcart lookalike. Dean NMI Van Gelder, W.M., DOB 3/4/21. 5'8¾", 178 lbs., blue eyes, brown hair. One armed-robbery bounce--6/42-- ten to twenty, released from Folsom 6/52, full minimum sentence topped--no parole. No further arrests--chalk it up to Bud White's theory--Van Gelder got it at the Nite Owl.
Hilda said, "That's it--_Dean_. Susan Nancy called him 'Dean,' but he said, 'No, get used to calling me "Duke.""'
Jack said, "You sure?"
"Yes, I'm sure. Six hours of looking at these awful pictures and you ask me if I'm sure? If I wanted to lie I would have pointed somebody out hours ago. _Please_, Officer. First you fmd a body under my house, next you subject me to these pictures. Now will you please take me home?"
Jack shook his head no. Work it: Who? to Van Gelder to Cathcart to the Nite Owl. One parlay made sense--the Englekling brothers to Cathcart to a brush with Mickey Cohen--in stir back in '53. He picked up the phone, dialed 0.
"Operator."
"Operator, this is a police emergency. I need to be put through to somebody in administration at McNeil Federal Penitentiary, Puget Sound, Washington."
"I see. And your name?"
"Sergeant Vincennes, Los Angeles Police Department. Tell them I'm on a homicide investigation."