The doorbell rang; Jack squinted in. Patchett walked to the door, opened it. Lynn Bracken shoved her newspaper at him-- zoom into a panic duet: mute lip movements, fear very large. Jack put an ear to the glass--all he heard was his own heart thumping. No need for sound: they didn't know Sid was dead, they're scared anyway, they didn't kill him.
They walked into the next room--full curtains, no way to look or listen. Jack ran to his car.
o o o
He made the Bureau ten minutes late. The Homicide pen was jam-packed _Badge of Honor_: Brett Chase, Miller Stanton, David Mertens the set man, Jerry Marsalas his nurse--one long bench crammed tight. Standing: Billy Dieterling, the camera crew, a half dozen briefcase men: attorneys for sure. The gang looked nervous; Duane Fisk and Don Kleckner paced with clipboards. No Mar Peltz, no Russ Millard.
Billy D. shot him the fisheye; the rest of the gang waved. Jack waved back; Kieckner buttonholed him. "Ellis Loew wants to see you. Booth number six."
Jack walked down. Loew was staring out a back wall mirror--a lie detector stall across the glass. Polygraph time: Millard questioning Peltz, Ray Pinker working the machine.
Loew noticed him. "I'd rather Mar didn't have to go through that. Can you fix it?"
Protecting a slush-fund contributor. "Ellis, I've got no truck with Millard. If Mar's lawyer advised him to do it, he'll have to do it."
"Can Dudley fix it?"
"Dud's got no truck with him either, Millard's the pious type. And before you ask me, I don't know who killed Sid, and I don't care. Has Max got an alibi?"
"Yes, but one that he would rather not use."
"How old is she?"
"Quite young. Would--"
"Yeah, Russ would file on him for it."
"My God, all this for scum like Hudgens."
Jack laughed. "Counselor, one of his little mudslings got you elected."
"Yes, politics makes for strange bedfellows, but I doubt if he'll be grieved. You know, we've got nothing. I talked to those attorneys outside, and they all assured me their clients have valid alibis. They'll give statements and be eliminated, the rest of the _Badge of Honor_ people will be alibied and then we'll only have the rest of Hollywood to deal with."
An opening. "Ellis, you want some advice?"
"Yes, give me your appropriately cynical view."
"Let it play out. Push on the Nite Owl, that's the one the public wants cleared. Hudgens was shit, the investigation'll be a shit show and we'll never get the killer. Let it play out."
The door opened; Duane Fisk put two thumbs down. "No luck, Mr. Loew. Alibis straight across, and they sound like good ones. The coroner estimated Hudgens' death at midnight to 1:00 A.M., and these people were all in plain view somewhere else. We'll go for corroboration, but I think it's a wipe."
Loew nodded; Fisk walked out. Jack said, "Let it go."
Loew smiled. "What's your alibi? Were you in bed with my sister-in-law?"
"I was in bed alone."
"I'm not surprised--Karen said you've been moody and scarce lately. You look edgy, Jack. Are you afraid your arrangement with Hudgens will be publicized?"
"Millard wants a deposition, I'll give him one. You buy Sid and me as lodge brothers?"
"Of course. Along with Dudley Smith, myself and several other well-known choirboys. You're right on Hudgens, Jack. I'll broach it to Bill Parker."
A yawn--the bennies were losing their kick. "It's a dog of a case, and you don't want to prosecute it."
"Yes, since the victim did facilitate _my_ election, and he might have left word that _you_ leaked word to him on Mr. McPherson's quote dark desires. Jack . . ."
"Yeah, I'll keep my nose down, and if your name turns up on paper I'll destroy it."
"Good man. And if I . . ."
"Yeah, there is something. Track the reports on the investigation. Sid kept some secret dirt files, and if your name's anywhere, it's there. And if I get a lead on where, I'll be there with a match."
Loew, pale. "Done, and I'll talk to Parker this afternoon."
Ray Pinker rapped on the mirror, pressed a graph to the glass: twin needle lines--no wild fluctuations. Out the speaker: "Not guilty, but no give on his alibi. Was he _en flagrante?_"
Loew smiled. Russ Millard, speaker loud. "Go to work, Vincennes. Nite Owl block canvassing, if you recall. Your cockamamie TV show hasn't panned out so far, and I want a written statement on your dealings with Hudgens. _By 0800 tomorrow_."
Darktown beckoned.
o o o
South to 77th. Jack popped another roll and picked up his search map; the desk sergeant told him the spooks were getting feistier, some pinko agitators put a bug up their ass, more garbage attacks, the garage men were going out in threes: one detective, two partrolmen, teams on opposite sides of the street. Meet his guys at 116th and Wills--they'd been one man short since noon.
The bennies kicked in--Jack zoomed back up. He drove to 116 and Wills: a stretch of cinderblock shacks, windows stuffed with cardboard. Dirt alleys, a bicycle brigade: colored kids packing fruit. His guys up ahead: two partrolmen on the left, two blues and a plainclothes on the right. Armed: tin snips, rifles. Jack parked, made the left-side team a threesome.
Pure shitwork.
Knock on the door, get permission to search the garage. Three quarters of the locals played possum; back to the garage, open the door, cut the lock. The right-side team didn't ask--they went in snips first, dawdled, brandished their hardware at the bicycle kids. The left-side kids tried to look mean; one kid chucked a tomato over their heads. The blues fired over his head--taking out a pigeon coop, chewing up a palm tree. Dusty garage after dusty garage after dusty garage--no '49 Mere license DG1 14.
Twilight, a block of deserted houses--broken windows, weed jungle lawns. Jack started feeling punk: achy teeth, chest pings. He heard rebel yells across the street; the right-side team triggered shots. He looked at his partners--then they all tore ass over.
The Holy Grail in a rat-infested garage: a purple '49 Merc, jig rig to the hilt. California license DG114--registcred to Raymond "Sugar Ray" Coates.
Two patrolmen whipped out bottles.
A couple of bicycle kids jabbered: the bonaroo paint job, a white cat hanging around the alley.
The left-side guys broke into a rain dance.
Jack squinted through a side window. Three pump shotguns on the floor between the seats: big bore, probably 12-gauge.
Yells-deafening; back slaps--bonecrusher hard. The kids yelled along; a patrolman let them slug from his bottle. Jack took a big gulp, emptied his gun at a streetlight, got it with his last shot. Whoops, rebel yells; Jack let the kids play quick draw with his piece. Sid Hudgens buzzed him--he took a big drink, chased him away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
A private room at the Pacific Dining Car. Dudley Smith, Ellis Loew, Bud across the table. Blistered hands, three days of hose work: sex offenders blurred in his head.
Dudley said, "Lad, we found the car and the shotguns an hour ago. No prints, but one of the firing pins perfectly matches the nicked shells we found at the Nite Owl. We took the victims' purses and wallets out of a sewer grate near the Tevere Hotel, which means that we have a damn near airtight case. But Mr. Loew and I want the whole hog. We want confessions."
Bud shoved his plate away. It all came back to the spooks-- scotch his shot at Exley. "So you'll put bright boy on the niggers again."
Loew shook his head. "No, Exley's too soft. I want you and Dudley to question them, inside the jail, tomorrow morning. Ray Coates has been in the infirmary with an car infection, but they're releasing him back into general population early tomorrow. I want you and Dud there bright and early, say 7:00."