“No, Major. He does not. Captain Smith is not here to coddle Fifth Columnists or view the notorious donkey show at the Blue Fox.”
Melnick slapped his knees. Almond flecks flew. Desk knickknacks rattled.
Dudley said, “I’ve reserved cells and interrogation rooms at the Statie barracks. The coastal site has been sealed and is now under guard. My police chemist will be driving down later today. He’ll forensic the sailors and the submarine itself.”
Melnick said, “¿Qué pasa, amigo? What did you make of it all?”
“I think Mexican leftists killed the sailors, sir. I’ll investigate with that in mind.”
Vasquez-Cruz smirked. He knew the truth. Or thought he did.
Melnick slurped coffee. “We’ve got sixteen dead saboteurs. You could say we got lucky, and let it go at that.”
“They were Fifth Column, sir. That’s undeniable. I’ll be grilling our in-custody Japs, with an eye toward turning leads along those lines.”
Melnick checked his watch and went Shit-I’m-late. He saluted and booked out the door.
Vasquez-Cruz smirked anew. Smug little shit. His mother cavorts with El Burro. He was born at the Blue Fox.
“ ‘Mexican leftists,’ hardly. You told me something quite different.”
Dudley lit a cigarette. “Let’s discuss money first.”
“We should begin with Carlos Madrano. You blew up his car, and a great many burned U.S. dollars were found amid the wreckage. Madrano had just left the Colonet Inlet, where the first sub had berthed. Now we have a second beached submarine. I’m thinking there may be additional monies hidden onboard.”
Dudley said, “I searched the Colonet sub and found ten thousand dollars U.S. My friend Hideo Ashida did the bulk of the work. We gave the money to Madrano, in exchange for our safety. I think we will find a similar amount in this newly beached craft. We will split the money, of course.”
Vasquez-Cruz pulled his chair up. “There is more to tell me, I’m sure.”
Dudley pulled his chair up. Their knees bumped. Burro Junior winced.
“There’s a fugitive at large in Los Angeles. His name is Tommy Glennon, and I know him rather well. I think Tommy killed a Chinese restauranteur, Eddie Leng, that I told you about. He disappeared the night Leng was killed, and they were both known to be jungled up in the Four Families tong. I also consider it likely that Tommy knows Lin Chung, a dubious physician who is surely privy to both sub berthings and sabotage plots. Tommy ran wets for Carlos Madrano and was dunning me for information about the man, when I last saw him. I think Tommy is part of all this, but he had to have had considerable help here in Baja.”
Vasquez-Cruz oozed delight. He fluffed his cravat and tee-heed.
“Such strategic insight. You are Robespierre, reborn.”
Dudley laughed. “Our mandate is to foil sabotage and make money.”
Vasquez-Cruz stuck his hand out. Dudley bone-crushed it. Vasquez-Cruz went Caramba — such strength.
Claire was out. Dudley patched switchboard calls straight from the suite.
He got Mike Breuning. They bypassed amenities. Mike reported this:
Drift per Tommy Glennon. Tommy owed Eddie Leng money. Eddie was crowding him. Jack Horrall palmed the Leng snuff off on Uncle Ace. Jack hated Chink snuffs. Their heathen customs fucked things up. Chinks should arbitrate Chinks.
The Alien Squad popped a Jap named Donald Matsura. He was a terp man and renaissance lowlife. He showed up in dead Eddie’s KA file. Matsura knew Tommy and Chink sawbones Lin Chung.
The phone rang. Dudley jiggled the receiver. The switchboard patched out Mike B. and patched in Uncle Ace.
Ace gibbered. English and Chinese overlapped. He talked himself dry. He pooped out and coughed himself hoarse.
Dudley said, “Good morning, my brother.”
“My Irish brother. I have missed you.”
“Eddie Leng, my brother. Jack Horrall has appointed you judge and jury.”
Ace said, “No leads, Dudster. I make piss-poor Charlie Chan. That why white man play him in movies.”
Dudley laughed. “There’s a Jap named Donald Matsura at Lincoln Heights. Lean on him, and confirm or eliminate him. I think Tommy Glennon killed Eddie, but I could be wrong. Put this matter to rest, my brother. We should seek to avoid a tong war as we pave our way to the money.”
Phone static hit. Ace talked over it: “Fuck”/“shit”/“money, how?”
The line cleared. Dudley said, “We run wetbacks. We smuggle heroin in Army vehicles transporting Baja Japs to U.S. internment camps. There’s a sell-Japs-as-slaves scheme I’m pondering.”
More line hiss. More garbled Ace: “Fuck”/“shit”/“cocksucker.” The line cleared. Ace said, “Jap beast must die.” It was his boffo signature close.
15
(Los Angeles, 9:00 A.M., 1/3/42)
The lab smock clashed with her hair. Her sensible shoes lacked panache. Navy blue and gold, farewell.
She waltzed on the war. She served notice at the Fed Building and cabbed to Central Station. She lugged her gear by the muster room. Short cops ogled her.
Anchors aweigh.
Joan schlepped two suitcases. They contained her microscope and textbooks. She trudged the stairs. The lab was unlocked and unoccupied.
She surveyed it. She smelled luminol and gun oil. The ballistics chute leaked asbestos.
PD chemists worked sardine tight. Her desk adjoined Dr. Ashida’s. They shared bookshelves and burner plates. Joan unpacked and stashed her suitcases in a closet.
Dr. Ashida kept his desk tidy. The charred box was propped up against it. Dirt-packed jars sat three across.
They were evidence-tagged. Mineral Canyon/Griffith Park/1-1-42.
The case intrigued her. It merged human passion with elemental forces. The rain, the mud slide, a precipitant fire. Possible-probable arson. Her specific métier.
She went by the L.A. Times yesterday. She flashed her police ID and wheedled a set of page scrapbooks. They detailed the Griffith Park blaze. Santa Ana winds and scorcher heat. A firebug arrested and released. A Communist cell scrutinized. No arrests. No firm forensic determination.
She should reread and annotate the scrapbooks. She should discuss the case with Dr. Ashida. Catastrophic fire was her métier. Dr. Ashida was prissy and domineering. She should establish crime-lab parity.
Joan unscrewed a dirt jar. She sniffed the dirt and placed a small clod in a beaker. She filled a stopper with liquid ammonia and squeezed in eight drops. She added sink water and placed the beaker on a hot plate.
She brought up a flash boil. The heat induced blue coloration. She checked her organic chemistry text and found a color chart. She got a perfect match.
She studied the charred box. She memorized the wood grain and consulted her woodlot text. There’s one more perf—
Hideo Ashida walked in.
He glared. He stomped one foot. Joan preempted him.
“This batch of wood derives from late summer ’33. It was cut by the Anawalt Lumber Company. My book lists Anawalt’s key 1933 customer as Los Angeles City Parks and Recreation. The dirt I tested contains traces of a four-to-one solution of oil-diluted kerosene, which has been known to be employed as a secondary accelerant to spread already-lit fires. I talked to Dr. Layman and did some newspaper research. Accordingly, I would surmise that the killer had knowledge of an impending arson in Griffith Park, or started the overall fire himself. The box was unearthed in a canyon that was then nearly invisible from the warren of canyons at the apex of the blaze. I would surmise that the killer knew his victim would be in that nearly invisible canyon or lured him there, then killed him, boxed him, covered him in deep, soft earth, and then set the secondary fire.”