But one thing didn’t play: Danny had questioned Coleman and met Side 183
Ellroy, James – Big Nowhere, The Reynolds. Why didn’t he snap to their obvious resemblance?
Mal went through the rest of the pages, feeling the kid giving him juice. Everything was perfectly logical and boldly intelligent: Danny was beginning to get the killer’s psyche down cold. There was a six-page report on his Tamarind Street break-in–he _did_ do it–devil take the hindmost, fuck City/County strictures; he was afraid LAPD would ruin him for it, so he didn’t take the polygraph that would have cleared him on Niles and nighttrained it instead. Photographs showing blood patterns were mixed in with the reports; Danny had to have taken them himself, he’d risked a forensic in enemy territory.
Mal felt tears in his eyes, saw himself building Ellis Loew’s prosecution with Danny’s evidence, making his own name soar on it. The Wolverine Killer in the gas chamber–sent there by the two of them and the unlikeliest best friend a ranking cop ever had: Buzz Meeks.
Mal dried his eyes; he made a neat stack of the pages and photographs.
He saw feminine script in the margins of a jigtown canvassing list: Southside hotels, with jazz clubs check-marked against Danny’s printing. He stuffed that page in his pocket, bundled the rest of the file up and walked to the front door with it. Tripping the bolt, he heard a key go in the lock; he opened the door bold, like Danny Upshaw at Tamarind Street.
Claire and Loftis were there on the porch; they looked at the broken glass, then at Mal and his armful of paper. Claire said, “You broke our deal.”
“Fuck our deal.”
“I was going to kill him. I finally figured out there was no other way.”
Mal saw a bag of groceries in Loftis’ arms; he realized they didn’t have time to see Minear. “For justice? People’s justice?”
“We just talked to our lawyer. He said there’s no way you can prove any kind of homicide charges against us.”
Mal looked at Loftis. “It’s all coming out. You and Coleman, all of it.
The grand jury and Coleman’s trial.”
Loftis stepped behind Claire, his head bowed. Mal glanced streetside and saw Buzz getting out of his car. Claire embraced her fiancé; Mal said, “Go look after Chaz. He killed a man for you.”
CHAPTER FORTY
Down to darktown in Mal’s car, Lux’s list of heroin pushers and the Danny/Claire list taped to the dashboard. Mal drove; Buzz wondered if he’d killed the Plastic Surgeon to the Stars; they both talked.
Buzz filled in first: Mary Margaret’s swooning confirmation and Lux minus the crucifixion. He talked up the plastic surgery on Coleman, a ploy to keep him safe from Dudley and fulfill his father’s perv; Lux shooting Gordean the incest dope for blackmail purposes, the story of the burned face a device to hide the perv from Loftis’ fellow lefties, the bandages simply the surgery scars healing. Buzz saved Lux rebreaking Coleman’s face for last; Mal whooped and used the point to segue to sax man Healy, questioned by Danny Upshaw on New Year’s Day–that was why the kid never snapped to a perfect Loftis/Coleman resemblance–it didn’t exist anymore.
From there, Mal talked Coleman. Coleman’s intro lead on Marty Goines as a fruit, Coleman stressing the tall, gray man, Coleman wearing a gray wig and probably makeup when he glommed his victims, shucking the beard Upshaw saw on him. Loftis and Claire had Mondo Lopez steal Danny’s files when they found out he was working the homo killings–Juan Duarte had snitched him as a cop. Mal recounted the Minear interrogation, Coleman the third point of the ’42–’44 love triangle, Chaz shooting blackmailer Gordean to redeem himself in Claire and Loftis’ eyes, Claire and Loftis searching for Coleman. And they both agreed: Marty Goines, a longtime Coleman pal, was probably a victim of opportunity–he was there when the rat man had to kill. Victims two, three and four were to tie in to Daddy Reynolds–a hellish smear tactic.
They hit the Central Avenue Strip, daytime quiet, a block of spangly facades: the Taj Mahal, palm trees hung with Christmas lights, sequined music clefs, zebra stripes and a big plaster jigaboo with shiny red eyes. None of the clubs appeared to be open: bouncer-doormen and parking lot attendants sweeping up butts and broken glass were the only citizens out on the street. Mal parked and took the west side; Buzz took the east.