55
(Los Angeles, 9:30 A.M., 2/4/42)
She hated him now. She conceded his brilliance and despised his effeminacy. She told him that Dudley was in and cut it off there. Ashida went smarmy and smirked.
Dr. Nort arrived. His presence muzzled her. She’d prepared jazzy ripostes. They spoofed Ashida’s crush on Dudley. He was Renfield in Dracula. He intoned, “Master, I come.”
Lyman’s back room socked in heat. Joan cracked a window. Shrieks echoed upstairs. Mike Breuning phone-booked a snotty witness.
Dr. Nort said, “I matched the male pubic hairs to our victims. That leaves the female samples unknown. We’ve got one Latin, and one Caucasian.”
Ashida said, “The semen stains. Were you able to—”
Dr. Nort cut in. “Rice and Kapek, most likely. O-positive is a very common type, and that’s as far as I could classify the secretions. Archuleta was AB-neg. I got four differentiated ejaculate groups. Our boys plus two unknown males.”
Joan lit a cigarette. “I examined the stains. There’s no sign of cellular erosion, so I concluded that the stains were recent — perhaps as recent as the night of the homicides. Can we posit an orgy that went spontaneously bad? Do the unidentified ejaculates correspond to more than one killer? Say it’s an orgy. Did our other men participate, abstain, or were the stains left at varying intervals?”
Dr. Nort sipped coffee. “We don’t really know who secreted what. Beyond that, we’ve got no leads on the two women.”
Ashida dunked a tea bag and blew on his cup. The snotty witness screamed. The upstairs floorboards shook.
“I have a theory. I think the killer led the victims downstairs, individually, with his ice pick pressed to their necks. All three are debilitated from their consumption of terpin hydrate. They stagger, flail, and knock those framed pictures off the right-hand side of the wall. There are a series of kick-mark indentations, low on that wall. They indicate a woman wearing pointed-toe shoes. The kick marks do not indicate any concentrated degree of force. It’s as if she were observing the forced marches downstairs, and the kicks were her form of punctuation.”
Joan mulled the theory. Dr. Nort shrugged and tapped his wristwatch. The snotty witness screamed. Dr. Nort went eeek and walked out.
Joan locked the door. She pointed to the corkboard and Jean Staley’s green sheet.
“She’s on Elmer Jackson and Buzz Meeks’ interview list. We already know a few things that they don’t. They may learn that she was in Meyer Gelb’s cell, and that the members were questioned about the fire that killed Elmer’s brother.”
Ashida studied the green sheet. He scanned the text and tapped a routing stamp.
“She has a CP file. They keep all those files at Wilshire Station.”
Joan pointed to the wall phone. Ashida walked up to it and dialed out. He spoke low and listened. He hung up and stamped one foot.
“Elmer saw the file yesterday. Captain Parker arranged it.”
Joan said, “Here’s what we’re up against. Is Jean Staley germane to this case, or to the fire case, or to our other one? Will the fire be mentioned in the CP file? If so, how will Elmer react?”
“He’s been alerted to a possible fire-case link. A gold-robbery link is most unlikely here.”
Joan mulled it. Ashida slouched against the wall and twirled the phone cord.
“Miss Staley’s name appeared in Tommy Glennon’s address book. I find that book suspect in and of itself.”
Joan leafed through the corkboard reports. She studied the book photostats. They were white on black and tacked straight across.
She saw what Ashida saw. Block-print forgeries. Hesitation marks and ruler marks. Four names were forged. The name Jean Staley was discernibly legit.
“You’re right. Chung, Welles, Lesnick, and Jamie are forged.”
The Teletype clattered. Joan tore off the sheet. Fourth Interceptor sent a communiqué. Lieutenant H. J. Ashida/you’ve been summoned south.
“This should please you, Hideo. Our handsome Irish friend has mischief in mind.”
56
(Tijuana, 5:30 P.M., 2/4/42)
It’s dusk in teeming T.J. Soldier, beware. The ghastly ghouls are out.
The he-shes. The whores. The jarheads down from Dago. The zip-gun boys.
Ashida parked on Revolución. He gave a zip-gun boy ten centavos to watchdog his car. The boy was eight years old. He goofed Ashida’s Army duds. Ashida mind-read him. Usted es un Jap.
Dudley shot him a note at the Biltmore. It said Jack Horrall kowtowed and pink-slipped his early release. The note critiqued probable address-book forgeries. The key suspect was one E. V. Jackson.
Ashida agreed. The why of it perplexed him. The note concluded: “Meet Lieutenant Juan Pimentel at the Blue Fox.”
Strolling ghouls checked out Ashida. The sex-show barkers. The rat-meat taco vendors. The male prosties in bullfighter chaps. Ashida rigged his Man Camera and shuttered them out.
This is Mexico. Certain questions persist. Where’s Kyoho Hanamaka? The fourteen Baja pay phones in Tommy’s address book. Qué es el truth there?
Ashida strolled. There’s the Blue Fox. It’s licentious and lewd-legendary. Hoochie girls lured sailors inside. They wore blue fox masks and tails. They were otherwise nude and single-digit pubescent.
Ashida shut his eyes and pushed past them. He entered the Fox. Big noise hit him. He opened his eyes and saw this:
A bandstand. An androgynous trio. A tethered donkey sporting red devil horns. Tables packed with U.S. Marines.
The trio featured a sylph vocalist, trumpet, and sax. They whipped through the “Marines’ Hymn” and segued to this:
“Mama’s on welfare!!!”
“Papa’s in jail!!!”
“Little sister’s on the corner — yelling, pussy for sale!!!”
“Grandma’s on white horse!!!”
“Grandpa’s on glue!!!”
“Little brother’s getting cornholed by some jigaboos!!!”
Ashida stood, stunned-o. Ghouls fluttered by. A girl tongued his neck. A boy grabbed his crotch. A he-she fondled his holster. He tried to move. He failed to move. The ghouls glued his feet to the floor.
He deployed Man Camera Left. Nude girls danced on a bartop. Seated sailors muff-munched them and jerked off. He deployed Man Camera Right. Fox-face girls table-hopped and fellated Marines.
He shut his eyes and shut it out. A schizy sound track rolled in the dark.
“There he is.”
“You are very astute, Huey. Of course it is him. He is the only Japanese within view.”
“Come on. You said you’d call me ‘mein Führer.’ ”
“If it pleases you — yes, of course.”
“I think he’s cute.”
“He’s Oriental cute, which is not my sort of indulgence.”
“He won’t open his eyes. This place must seem pretty raw to him.”
“Come, Lieutenant Ashida. Captain Smith has a full night’s work for you.”
They took Ashida’s car and hit the coast road south. Ashida drove. His ghoul colleagues lounged in the backseat. Pimentel sniffed cocaine. Führer Huey made kissy sounds. Pimentel reached over and played the radio. Father Coughlin proclaimed.
The drive protracted. Pimentel mimicked Jap Zeroes at Pearl. Huey mimicked bomb blasts and sailors fried alive.