Joan said, “When peace comes, we’ll lose this.”
Parker said, “They magnify the moon. That’s the part I like best.”
They sat on Joan’s back steps. Joan sat one step down. His feet were right there. Joan held an ankle just so she could touch him.
“You’ve been detached to work this job. I thought you’d be more displeased than you are.”
Parker touched her shoulder. “We’re skirting that topic we weren’t going to discuss.”
“You’re saying Jack Horrall’s pining for a certain case last month, so he’s assembled a near-identical Crash Squad.”
“You understand this police department very damn well. You wouldn’t have learned the ins and outs of the Navy anywhere near as fast.”
“I dreamt about the Mexicans last night. I was being tried for vehicular manslaughter, and the DA asked me if I knew the names of the victims. I said, ‘Well, my policeman colleagues call them wetbacks and cholos.’ ”
Parker touched her hair. “Don’t do that. Don’t derail yourself when things start going your way.”
Joan kissed his hand and placed it back on his knee. A searchlight beam crossed the moon. Joan saw little craters.
She left City Hall and drove back to the klubhaus. She redusted and rephotographed all day. She hadn’t seen the Santa Barbara file. Ashida was there all day. He hadn’t seen it, either.
Parker tapped her shoulder. “You’ve developed a particular habit. You keep worrying those gold cuff links, like you’re checking for signs of stigmata.”
Joan smiled. “There’s a story behind it, but I’m not going to tell it to you.”
“I’ll quote Jack Horrall, then. ‘Tell me something I don’t know.’ ”
Joan looked up at him. His dumb sport coat complemented his dumb cologne. His trousers drooped. He wore a cross-draw belt gun.
“I went to a wild party, just to observe Kay Lake. I took a steam bath with a famous actor and your old nemesis Claire De Haven. I kept thinking, Why am I naked with people I don’t even know? and They don’t do this in Tomah, Wisconsin.”
Parker looked down at her. “What are you saying? You’re a scientist, and you never speak elliptically. I admire that about you. I never have to strain myself to grasp your intent.”
Joan touched his leg. “I’m saying, ‘Darling Bill, you’ve given me a life that I never could have imagined, and I will remain forever grateful, however this thing of ours plays out.”
Parker tripped down two steps instead of just one. Joan grabbed his arm and pulled him back up. She brought him in close. They kissed. His glasses snagged in her hair. They stumbled inside and into the bedroom. They knocked over a wobbly lamp as they fell.
48
(Los Angeles, 5:00 A.M., 2/1/42)
Ashida dawdled. He felt gob-smacked. It felt indolent and all wrong.
He made beaker-brew coffee. It salved his drinks-with-Dudley hangover. He ran checklists. He cleaned his lab gear. He replayed last night.
They met at the Windsor and sat at the bar. They wore their uniforms and turned heads. It felt like a hot date.
Dudley ordered stingers. Ashida felt like a girl plied with booze. Dudley brought a Statie print card. Hector Obregon-Hodaka/Kyoho Hanamaka’s KA.
The klubhaus job dips south. It melds with Hanamaka and his gold bayonet. The bayonet’s mint marks match the marks on his gold bar. The mint-train heist and Griffith Park fire further intersect.
Ashida cracked windows. Cold air fanned a lab-solvent stink. He sipped coffee. He tallied case points. What he knew and Joan Conville knew. What Dudley knew nothing of.
He lost track of his falsehoods. He realized this:
He was Dudley’s idolatrous accomplice. Joan was Dudley’s lover. He saw them together and sensed it. They had to disclose everything. They had to share the gold, three ways.
Rain bounced off window screens. The coffee induced cold sweats.
Dudley loved the bayonet. Its utility superseded 8.2 pounds of gold. The bayonet accessorized his fascist aesthetic. Captain D. L. Smith killed people and communed with a fantasy wolf. Lieutenant H. J. Ashida’s fantasy lover was quite insane.
The bayonet was History. The bayonet was Dudley’s beloved Wagner and Norse myth. Dudley would accede to gold as money. The Myth of This Gold would gob-smack him and inspire him to possess it.
Ashida checked his watch. He was due at the klubhaus. He had three lab tasks first.
Test the semen-stained sheets. Run the Mexican’s prints. Study the Santa Barbara Sheriff’s heist file. Hope that Reckless Girl hasn’t studied it first.
He’d blood-typed the ejaculate and ID’d four secretors. Two O-positive/one A-negative/one rare RH-positive. Dr. Nort would comparison-type the victims’ blood types. He was set to run foreign-substance tests himself.
He prepped a burner and preheated an acid-phosphate solution. He added purified water and brought up a boil. He placed sheet swatch #1 in the liquid. The semen stain eroded in two seconds flat.
Ashida noted swirling particles. One type was dark and granular. One type was viscous and near-transparent.
He naked-eyed them. They were forensically compatible and easily ID’d.
Human fecal matter. A glycerin-based lubricant. Most likely K-Y jelly.
Ashida flinched. He turned off the burner and set the other swatches aside. He wide-cracked windows. A wet breeze raised goose bumps. He pulled the Unknown Mexican print card.
Drudgework now. The print-card index. Card drawers subdivided by gender and race. Twelve drawers for “Mexican, Male.”
Ashida microphotographed the Unknown Mex card. He got all ten digits and hit the photo lab. He locked himself in the darkroom. He worked with scissors, dip solvents, and a magnifying camera. He shot ten six-by-eight prints.
A heater fan dried them inside twenty minutes. They developed white on black. He taped them to the wall above the print-card bank. He pencil-marked significant ridges and whorls. He pulled out the A drawer and worked standing up.
He started at Abrevaya, George and Acosta, Ramon. He noted inconsistent whorl patterns and moved on. He went through Alvarez, Alvaro/Alvarez, José and Alvarez, Juan. Alvarez was a dirt-common name.
He studied nine more Alvarez cards. He hit Archuleta, Arturo, aka “Archie.”
There’s a tweaker. Check the left-forefinger print. Look — the top ridge patterns match.
Ashida snatched his eyepiece scope. He went up/down, up/down, up/down. He studied Archuleta’s left-hand prints. He eyeball-skimmed the unknown Mex fotos.
He counted comparison points. He got ten points, fourteen points, a big twenty-one. That cinched it. Bam! — Archie Archuleta was klubhaus stiff #3.
The lab went sauna hot. Ashida cracked all the windows. A breeze blew loose papers off desks.
He hit the green-sheet index. He yanked the A to B file drawer and finger-walked. He pulled Archuleta’s green sheet. It revealed this:
Born: Tijuana, Mexico — 8/19/89. Narco jolts back to ’15. Two years at the dope hospital in Lexington, Kentucky. Two Chino terms here. Popped for plain drunk/drunk 502/forging doctors’ scripts. 27 dope rousts, total. LKA: 841 Wabash, Boyle Heights. No KAs listed. Last bounce: drunk 502/3-6-39. Popped in ’35 Ford/59th and Central.
Ashida wrote up his findings. He’d call Thad Brown and inform him. He’d paper-post his reports at Lyman’s.
He got out the heist file. The page stack felt heavy. He checked the bottom of the pile and saw loose paperwork. It pertained to the ’33 liquor-store jobs. Robbery Division weighs in.