They passed Ensenada and cut inland. They climbed scrub hills and found it: this weird A-frame chalet.
The lights were on. Dudley stood outside. He wore a kimono. He embraced Ashida and called him “Ichiban.”
Pimentel and Führer Huey peeled off. They were bivouacked in the surveillance haus up the next hillside. Ashida unloaded his lab gear. Dudley assisted. Ashida Man Camera’d him.
He swayed here. He walked inimically straight in L.A. He’s T. E. Lawrence West now. He’s gone native. Call him Smith of Mexico. He overlords the brown hoi polloi.
His kimono swirled. Ashida studied the design. It was orange-and-black silk. Little Sinarquista snakes were inlaid.
They toured the hideaway. Dudley dubbed it the “Wolfschanze.” He’d appropriated the chalet and planned to remodel it. Maestro Klemperer’s L.A. spread inspired him. Claire had showed him jazzy snapshots.
Ashida viewed Hanamaka’s hidey-hole. Dudley posed in Nazi tunics cut to fit him. Ashida read Hanamaka’s journal. He trembled as he flipped pages. The lunatic Left and Right merge behind one banner. This war marks a prophecy fulfilled.
They sat down in the living room. Faded bloodstains covered one wall. Dudley served warm sake. A phonograph murmured Parsifal, low.
They discussed the gold and all events related. They time-machined back to May ’31 and October ’33. They stopped at the klubhaus today.
They tracked police-file revelations. Fritz Eckelkamp and Wayne Frank Jackson. The liquor-store spree. Tommy Glennon’s address book. Brother Elmer’s forgeries.
Jean Staley. Elmer, poised to brace her. Miss Staley’s membership in Meyer Gelb’s cell. Martin Luther Mimms. Dudley’s plan to brace Chung, Jamie, and Welles.
The dialogue wound down. Untersturmbannführer Ashida remained attentive.
Dudley said, “Comb the place, top to bottom. See what you can find.”
A midnight rainstorm came and went. Dudley drove back to Ensenada. Lieutenant Juan and Führer Huey stuck to the lookout haus. Ashida roamed the Wolfschanze. He’d inventoried his gear. It covered all contingencies.
Three microscopes. Three forensic hot plates. Print cards and print-lift tools. Evidence pouches/beakers/Bunsen burners. Three forensic vacuums.
The task was confirm or refute. Try to match L.A.-to-Baja locations. The Hanamaka print linked the klubhaus to the Wolfschanze. Try to link conversely here.
Prints first.
Ashida dusted the downstairs walls. He powdered wide swaths and naked-eyed them. He saw washcloth wipe marks overlaid with dust.
Thick dust. Hanamaka vanished on December 18. It was now February 5. The washcloth marks and dust overlay confirmed his departure date.
Ashida dusted downstairs furniture. He hit hard surfaces only. They were all print-sustaining/all touch-and-grab.
He got wipe marks, smudges, and smears. It confirmed the professional wipe job. The smudges and smears overlaid the marks. That meant they were recent. The smudges and smears were surely Herr Dudley Smith’s.
Ashida dusted the upstairs walls and furniture. He got the same results. The upstairs dust had settled in thick. Dudley kept the windows cracked wide.
Fibers next.
He installed vacuum bags and worked with flat and scooped nozzles. He vacuumed carpets, soft furniture, floor-to-wall points. He pulled up rug grit and dust and filled three bags.
He emptied the bags on Dudley’s kitchen table. He naked-eyed the contents. It was all dust and rug grit.
Ashida switched nozzles. He installed a soft-bristled one. It caught buffed-surface particles best.
The one bathroom had been wall-and-fixture wiped. Washcloth swirls plainly showed. This was in-tight work. Get behind the toilet and under the sink.
Ashida worked on his knees. He swept the nozzle over flat surfaces and pushed it against sink pipes and wall planes. He got the sink, the bathtub, the toilet. No suction sounds reverberated. All fiber snags would run silent here.
Dawn broke clear and bright. His muscles throbbed. He smelled his own sweat.
He walked to the kitchen table. He donned his headlamp and looked into the bag. He naked-eyed toilet-paper scraps and one dark blue thread.
He plucked the thread and placed it on a microscope slide. He dialed close and saw the interior shaft. The weave indicated fine silk. The cross weave indicated cheap dye.
Maybe. Just possibly. This could be—
Ashida rigged a comparison scope. He removed the thread and placed it on the right-side mount. He dug in his evidence kit. He found his comparison thread.
He placed it on the left-side mount. He dialed both lenses tight. He looked left-right, left-right, left-right. He made this determination. It’s an identical match.
Wendell Rice. His Hawaiian shirt. The shirt he died in. Wendell Rice was here at the Wolfschanze. Wendell Rice died at the klubhaus.
Ashida went up-all-night woozy. He stumbled around the kitchen. He went weak-kneed. Flashes lit the one window. It startled him.
The flashes repeated. They hit once, twice, three times. A pattern repeated. Short, long, short. It was Morse code/dot, dash, dot.
Light hit the window. The same sequence repeated. Ashida knew Morse code. He deciphered it.
Dots and dashes. Dashes and dots. They spelled out “We love you.”
The flashes hit windowpane glass. They hit downward. They flashed from somewhere outside and above.
Ashida brought binoculars. He grabbed them and held them up to the window. He dialed in. He glanced up and out and saw this:
The lookout haus. A wide window there. Lieutenant Juan and Führer Huey. They’re holding up a hand mirror. They’re flashing “We Love You/We Love You/We Love You.”
Lieutenant Juan and Führer Huey. They’re stark nude and entwined.
57
(Los Angeles, 10:00 A.M., 2/5/42)
The Herald headlined it. Tall type jumped out and slammed you. Sid Hudgens inked the piece.
WEREWOLF BEATS GAS CHAMBER!!! D.A. MANDATES LUNACY BOUNCE!!!
Elmer read the piece and reread it. He sat in his prowl sled. Simon’s was packed. He read and perv-viewed Jean Staley, intermittent.
The Sidster’s style packed panache. Chief Horrall was a “heartbroken humanist.” He could not “abysmally abide” a “Werewolf barbecue.” “Devoted-to-justice detectives” brokered a deal. NO GREEN ROOM TREK FOR WEREWOLF, D.A. BILL MC PHERSON SEZ.
Elmer tossed the paper and snarfed his breakfast. He noshed nutritious today. His pineapple malt was infused with Old Crow. Oooga-booga. The Werewolf gets a skate. Sid fed him the inside dish back at Lyman’s.
Bill Parker got all weepy. Poor Werewolf — boo-hoo, boo-hoo. He confabbed with El Dudster. Demands went down. It was a frame job, anyway. Fuck the fucking Watanabes. Who cares who killed them? The Werewolf rates a stroll.
Elmer scoped Jolting Jean. Her tortoiseshell glasses wowed him. She packed panache herself.
That same bleached-blond carhop hopped him today. That was good. He was saving Jungle Jean. He had to scurrilously scope her out first.
Her CP file hexed him. He got weepy for Wayne Frank. He recalled the good times. He ignored Wayne Frank’s shitbird demeanor and Klan escapades.
Buzz hopped in the car. Wham! — this Okie cyclone.
“I ain’t seen you in two days, but I thought I might find you here.”