“And, lad, I kept them there through the night, making them look at the corpse. I hit them, and Dick hit them, and we made them kiss the dead girl and fondle her while we questioned them.”
“And?”
“And, lad, none of them killed lovely Beth.”
“Jesus Christ,” I said.
“Ahhh, yes. Jesus Christ. I didn’t get the fiend who killed the Dahlia, lad. I know in my heart of hearts that no one ever will. I took the young dead woman back to the morgue to be cremated. She was a lonely Jane Doe, who unknowingly served justice by her death. I went to confession the next morning. I told the father what I had done and asked for absolution. I got it. Then I went home and prayed to God and to Jesus and to the Blessed Virgin to let me have the strength to do it again and again, if I had to, in the name of justice and the church.”
We were coming down into Hollywood. I pulled over to the curb at Crescent Heights and Sunset. I stared at Dudley’s florid, demonic face. He stared back.
“And, lad?” he said, mimicking my tone.
“And what, Dudley?” I managed to get out, my voice steady.
“And do you think Dudley’s a lunatic, lad?”
“No, I think you’re a master actor.”
“Ha-ha-ha! Well said. Is ‘actor’ a euphemism for ‘madman,’ lad?”
“No, I just think sometimes you’re not sure what role you’re playing.”
Tiny brown predator eyes bored into me. “Lad, all my roles are in the name of justice and all my roles are me. Don’t you forget that.”
“Sure, Dudley.”
“And, lad, don’t think I don’t know you. Don’t think I don’t know how smart you think you are. Don’t think I didn’t notice how you relished giving me guff in front of Brubaker. Don’t think I don’t know what a son of a bitch you think I am. Ha-ha-ha! Enough sorrow and contention, lad. Drive me downtown and take the rest of the day off.”
I dropped Dudley downtown in front of Central Division headquarters on Los Angeles Street. He stuck his big hand out and we shook. “Tomorrow, lad. Eight AM. at the hotel. We’ll go over our evidence and decide when we’ll snatch handsome Eddie.”
“Right, Dudley.”
He squeezed my hand until I rewarded him with a wince, then he winked and left me to contemplate madness and salvation.
I had over four hours to kill before my date with Lorna. I drove home and wrote out a detailed report on my involvement in the Margaret Cadwallader case. I put it in a large manila envelope and sealed it shut. I fed Night Train, changed clothes, and shaved again.
On my way downtown I stopped at a florist’s shop, where I bought Lorna a dozen long-stemmed red roses. Somehow they made me think of the dead girl whose eternal sleep Dudley Smith had so viciously interrupted. I started to get a little scared, but the thought of Lorna kiboshed my fear and turned it into some strange symbiosis of hope and the odd amenities of justice.
I waited impatiently, red roses in hand, outside the Spring Street entrance to city hall until six-thirty.
Lorna was standing me up. I jogged over to the parking lot on Temple. Her car was in its space. Angry, I walked back to city hall and entered. I checked out the directory in the vestibule: the office of the district attorney occupied two whole floors. Nervously, I took the elevator, although I wanted to run the nine flights of stairs. I walked down the deserted ninth floor corridors, poking my head in open doorways, checking empty conference rooms. I even ducked my head into the ladies’ can. Nothing.
I heard the clack-clacking of a typewriter in the distance. I walked down the hallway to a glass door with “Grand Jury Investigations” lettered on it in flat black paint. I knocked softly.
“Who is it?” Lorna’s voice called testily.
I disguised my voice: “Telegram, ma’am.”
“Shit,” I heard her mutter. “It’s open.”
I pushed in the door. Lorna looked up from her typewriter, noticed me and jumped toward the door in an attempt to block my entrance. I sidestepped her, and she crashed to the floor.