L.A. Confidential Part 23
"How do you figure?"
"He's a swish. He's careful about his hands, and he'd never put it in a girl."
"Anything else?"
"He carried a knife. His girls call him 'Blue Blade' 'cause his name's Gilette."
"You don't seem surprised Kathy got it that way."
Cindy touched her eyes--bone dry. "She was born for it. Dukey softened her up, so she quit hating men. A few more years and she would've learned. s.h.i.t, I should have treated her better."
"Yeah, me too."
Eagle Rock, an R&I check: Dwight Gilette, a.k.a. "Blade," a.k.a. "Blue Blade," 3245 Hibiscus, Eagle's Aerie Housing Development. Six suborning arrests, no convictions, listed as a male Caucasian--if he was a shine he was pa.s.sing with style. Bud found the tract, the street: cozy stucco cubes, Hibiscus a prime spot: a smoggy L.A. view.
3245: peach paint job, steel flamingos on the lawn, a blue sedan in the driveway. Bud walked up, pushed the buzzer--jingly chimes sounded.
A high-yellow guy opened up. Thirtyish, short, plump, slacks and a silk shirt with a Mr. B. collar. "I heard on the radio, so I thought you fellows might be coming by. The radio said midnight, and I have an alibi. He lives a block away and I can have him here toot-sweet. Kathy was a sweet kid and I don't know who'd do a thing like that. And don't you fellows usually come in pairs?"
"You finished?"
"No. My alibi is my lawyer, he still lives a block away and he's very well placed in the American Civil Liberties Union."
Bud shouldered him into the house, whistled.
Fruit heaven: deep pile rugs, Greek G.o.d statues. Male nudes on the wall--paint on velvet flocking. Bud said, "Cute."
Gilette pointed to the phone. "Two seconds or I call my attorney."
Quick throw. "Duke Cathcart. You sold Kathy to him, right?"
"Kathy was headstrong, Duke made me an offer. Duke's dead in that awful Nite Owl thing, so don't tell me you suspect me of that."
No hink. "I heard Duke was pushing s.m.u.t. You hear that?"
"s.m.u.t is decla.s.se and the answer is no."
More no hink. "Give me some trade talk on Duke. What've you heard?"
Gilette stood one hip jutting. "I heard a guy was asking around about Duke, coming on like Duke, maybe thinking about crashing his stable, not that he had much of a stable left, I've heard. Now will you please leave me alone before I call my friend?"
The phone rang--Gilette walked to the kitchen, grabbed an extension. Bud walked in slow. Nice stuff: Frigidaire, coil burner stove on full blast: eggs, boiling water, stew.
Gilette made kissy sounds, hung up. "Are _you_ still here?"
"Nice pad, Dwight. Business must be good."
"Business is excellent, thank you very much."
"Good. I need skinny on Kathy's old tricks, so cough up your wh.o.r.e book."
Gilette hit a switch above the sink. A motor growled; he shoved sc.r.a.pings down a garbage hole. Bud flipped the switch up. "Your wh.o.r.e book."
"No, _nein, nyet_ and never."
Bud hooked him to the gut. Gilette rolled with it, grabbed a knife, swung. Bud sidestepped, kicked at his b.a.l.l.s. Gilette doubled up; Bud hit the garbage switch. The motor _scree'd_; Bud jammed the queer's knife hand down the chute.
SCREEEE--the sink shot back blood, bone. Bud yanked the hand out minus fingers--SCREEEEE fifty times louder. Stumps to the burner coils, stumps to the icebox sizzling. "GIVE ME THE f.u.c.kING Wh.o.r.e BOOK"--through a SCREEEEEEEE echo chamber.
Gilette, eyes rolling back. "Drawer . . . by TV . . . ambulance."
Bud dropped him, ran to the living room. Empty drawers, back to the kitchen--Gilette on the floor eating paper.
Choke hold: Gilette spat out a half-chewed page. Bud picked up the wad, stumbled outside, burned flesh making him gag. He smoothed the paper out: names, phone numbers--smeared, two legible: Lynn Bracken, Pierce Patchctt.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Jack at his desk, counting lies.
At work: a string of dead-end reports; legit zeros from the other squad guys totaled luck: Millard wanted to dump the s.m.u.t job. Count duty no-shows as lies--he'd spent a full day chasing names--matches to the cars in Bel Air. Four names tagged; no luck at a modeling agency specializing in movie star lookalikes--none of the girls came close to his beauties. Put the names aside, chalk up the day as a wash--Sid Hudgens made pursuit a dead issue. He just wanted to see the women again-- add that one to his lies to Karen.
They spent the morning at her beach place. Karen wanted to make love; he put her off with bulls.h.i.t: he was distracted, he'd asked to be detached to the Nite Owl because justice was so important. Karen tried to undress him; he told her he had a sprained back; he didn't say he wasn't interested because all he wanted to do was use her, make her do it with other women, recreate f.u.c.k book scenarios. His biggest lie: he didn't tell her that he'd fmally stepped in s.h.i.t that didn't turn to clover, that he'd played an angle that played him back to the gas chamber door, that his home-to-Narco ticket read adios, lovebirds-- because she'd trace 10/24/47 to all his other lies and his carefully constructed nice-guy Big V would go down in flames.
He didn't tell her he was terrified. She didn't sense it--his front was still strong.
Other fronts holding--dumb luck.
Sid hadn't called, his monthly _Hush-Hush_ came on schedule-- no note, some "sinuendo" on Max Peltz and teenage poon-- nothing scary. He checked the report on the Fleur-de-Lis shootout: bright boy Ed Exley caught the squeal. Exley baffled: no make on the drop-pad tenants, the shelves cleaned out--only some bondage s.h.i.t left--make the rest of the filth down the hidey-hole. Make Lamar Hinton for the shots--a free ride--the Big V was off the case, the Big V had a new mission.
Sid Hudgens knew Pierce Patchett and Fleur-de-Lis; Sid Hudgens knew the Malibu Rendezvous. Sid had a load of private dirt files stashed. The Big V's job: find _his_ file, destroy it.
Jack checked his plate list, names matched to DMV pics.
Seth David Krugliak, the owner of the Bel Air manse--fat, oily, a movie biz lawyer. Pierce Morehouse Patchett, Fleur-de-Lis Boss--Mr. Debonair. Charles Walker Champlain, investment banker--shaved head, goatee. Lynn Margaret Bracken, age twenty-nine--Veronica Lake. No criminal records.
"h.e.l.lo, lad."
Jack swiveled around. "Dud, how are you? What brings you to Ad Vice?"
"A confab with Russ Millard, my colleague on the Nite Owl now. And on that topic, I heard you want in."
"You heard right. Can you swing it?"
Smith pa.s.sed him a mimeo sheet. "I already have, lad. You're to join in the search for Coates' car. Every garage within the radiu3 on this page is to be checked--with or without the owner's consent. You're to begin immediately."
A map carbon: southside L.A. in street grids. "Lad, I need a personal favor."
"Name it."
"I want you to keep a tail on Bud White. He's gotten personally involved in the unfortunate killing of a child prost.i.tute, and I need him stable. Will you stick to him nights, great tailer that you are?"
Bad Bud--always a sucker for strays. "Sure, Dud. Where's he working out of?"
"77th Street Station. He's been a.s.signed to roust jigaboos with s.e.x offender records. He's on daywatch at 77th, and you'll be clocking in and out there as well."
"Dud, you're a lifesaver."
"Would you care to elaborate on that, lad?"
"No."
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Memo: "From: Chief Parker. To: Dep. Chief Green, Capt. R. Millard, Lt. D. Smith, Sgt. E. Exley. Conference: Chief's Office, 4:00 P.M., 4/23/53. Topic: Questioning of witness Inez Soto." His father's note: "She's wonderful and Ray Dieterling's much taken with her. But she's a material witness and a Mexican, and I advise you not to get too attached to her. And under no circ.u.mstances should you shack up with her. Cohabitation is against departmental regs and being with a Mexican woman could seriously stall your career."
Parker kicked things off. "Ed, the Nite Owl case is narrowing down to the Negroes in custody or some other colored gang. Now, word has it that you've gotten close to the Soto girl. Lieutenant Smith and I deem it imperative that she undergo questioning in order to clear up the time element, alibi or not alibi the three in custody, and identify the other men who a.s.saulted her. We think pentothal is the best way to get results, and pentothal works best when a subject is at ease. We want you to convince Miss Soto to cooperate. She probably trusts you, so you'll have credibility."
Inez post-Stensland: sh.e.l.l-shocked, hard-pressed to move to Arrowhead. "Sir, I think all our evidence so far is circ.u.mstantial. I think we should get other corroboration before I approach Miss Soto, and I want to try questioning Coates, Jones and Fontaine again."
Smith laughed. "Lad, they refused to talk to you the other day, and now they have a pinko public defender who's advising them to stay mute. Ellis Loew wants a grand jury presentation--Nite Owl and Little Lindbergh--and you can facilitate it. Kid gloves has gotten us nowhere with our fair Miss Soto, and it's time we quit coddling her."
Russ Millard: "Lieutenant, I agree with Sergeant Exley. If we keep pressing on the southside, we'll turn rape witnesses and maybe find Coates' car and the murder weapons. My instincts tell me the girl's recollections of that night might be too muddled to do us any good, and if we make her remember, it might wreck her life more than it's been wrecked already. Can you picture Ellis Loew badgering her in front of the grand jury? Not very pretty, is it?"
Smith laughed--straight at Millard. "Captain, you politicked very hard to share this command with me, and now you advance a sob sister sensibility. This is a brutal ma.s.s murder that requires a swift and hard resolution, not a sorority party. And Ellis Loew is a brilliant attorney and a compa.s.sionate man. I'm sure he would handle Miss Soto with care."
Millard swallowed a pill, chased it with water. "Ellis Loew is a headline-grubbing buffoon, not a policeman, and he should not be directing the thrust of this investigation."
"Fair Captain, I deem that comment near seditious in its--"
Parker raised a hand. "Gentlemen, enough. Thad, will you take Captain Millard and Lieutenant Smith down the hall and buy them coffee while I talk to the sergeant here?"
Green ushered the two outside. Parker said, "Ed, Dudley's right."
Ed kept quiet. Parker pointed to a stack of newspapers. "The press and the public demand justice. We'll look very bad if we don't clear this up soon."
"Sir, I know."
"Do you care about the girl?"
"Yes."
"You know that sooner or later she'll have to cooperatc?"
"Sir, don't underestimate her. She's steel inside."
Parker smiled. "Then let's see how much steel you possess. Convince her to cooperate, and if we get enough corroboration to convince Ellis Loew he's got a showstopper grand jury case, I'll jump you on the promotion list. You'll be a detective lieutenant immediately."
"And a command?"
"Arnie Reddin retires next month. I'll give you the Hollywood detective squad."
Ed tingled.
"Ed, you're thirty-one. Your father didn't make lieutenant until he was thirty-three."
"I'll do it."
CHAPTER THIRTY
Pervert patrol: Cleotis Johnson, registered s.e.x offender, pastor of the New Bethel Methodist Episcopal Church of Zion, had an alibi for the night Inez Soto was kidnapped: he was in the 77th Street drunk tank. Davis Walter Bush, registered s.e.x offender, alibied up by a half dozen wimesses: they were engaged in an all-night c.r.a.p game in the rec room of the New Bethel Methodist Episcopal Church of Zion. Fleming Peter Hanley, registered s.e.x offender, spent that night at Central Receiving: a drag queen bit his d.i.c.k; a team of emergency room docs labored to save the organ so he could notch up a few more convictions for sodomy with mayhem.
Pervert patrol, a call to Eagle Rock Hospital: Dwight Gilette made it there. A skate: the swish didn't die on him.
Four more RSOs alibied; a run by the Hall of Justice Jail. Stens flying high on raisinjack--a jailer fixed him a toilet brew c.o.c.ktail. Rants: Ed Exley, Danny Duck porking Ellis Loew.
Home, a shower, DMV checks: Pierce Patchett, Lynn Bracken. Calls--a pal working Internal Affairs, West Valley Station. Good results: no Gilette complaint, three men on the Kathy snuff.
Another shower--he could still smell the day on himself.
Bud drove to Brentwood: squeeze Pierce Morehouse Patchett, no criminal record--strange for a name in a pimp's wh.o.r.e book. 1184 Gretna Green, a big Spanish mansion: all pink, lots of tile.