“No.”
“Do you want a physical description?”
“No.”
“The odds that you’ll have to lay her?”
“No.”
“Do you want her sexual background?”
Danny threw his question out before he could back down. “No. I want to Side 96
Ellroy, James – Big Nowhere, The know why a ranking policeman has a crush on a Commie socialite.”
Considine blushed pink–the way Felix Gordean told him _he_ blushed; Danny tried reading his face and caught: _got me_. Call-me-Mal laughed, slid off his wedding band and tossed it in the wastebasket. He said, “Man to man?”
Danny said, “No, brass to brass.”
Considine made the sign of the cross on his vestfront. “Ashes to ashes, and not bad for a minister’s son. Let’s just say I’m susceptible to dangerous women, and my wife is divorcing me, so I can’t chase around and give her ammo to use in court. I want custody of my son, and I will not give her one shred of evidence to spoil my case. And I don’t usually offer my confessions to junior officers.”
Danny thought: this man is so far out on a limb that you can say anything to him and he’ll stick around–because at 1:00 A.M. he’s got no place fucking else to go. “And _that’s_ why you’re getting such a kick out of operating De Haven?”
Considine smiled and tapped the top desk drawer. “Why am I betting there’s a bottle, in here?”
Danny felt himself blush. “Because you’re smart?”
The hand kept tapping. “No, because your nerves are right up there with mine, and because you always stink of Lavoris. Brass to rookie, here’s a lesson: cops who smell of mouthwash are juicers. And juicer cops who can keep it on a tight leash are usually pretty good cops.”
“Pretty good cops” flashed a green light. Danny nudged Considine’s hand away, opened the drawer and pulled out a pint and two paper cups. He poured quadruple shots and offered; Considine accepted with a bow; they hoisted drinks.
Danny said, “To both our cases”; Considine toasted, “To Stefan Heisteke Considine.” Danny drank, warmed head to toe, drank; Considine sipped and hooked a thumb over his back at Harlan “Buddy” Jastrow. “Upshaw, who is this guy? And why are you so bent out of shape on your goddamn homo killings?”
Danny locked eyes with Jastrow. “Buddy’s the guy I used to want to get, the guy who used to be the worst, the hardest nut to crack because he was just plain nowhere. Now there’s this other thing, and it’s just plain terror. It’s incredibly brutal, and I think it might be random, but I don’t quite go with that. I think I’m dealing with revenge. I think all the killer’s methods are reenactments, all the mutilations are symbolic of him trying to get his past straight in his mind. I keep thinking it all out, and I keep coming back to revenge on old wrongs. Not everyday childhood trauma shit, but big, big stuff.”
Danny paused, drank and sighted in on the mugboard around Jastrow’s neck: Kern County Jail, 3/4/38. “Sometimes I think that if I know who this guy is and why he does it, then I’ll know something so big that I’ll be able to figure out all the everyday stuff like cake. I can get on with making rank and handling meat and potatoes stuff, because everything I ever sensed about what people are capable of came together on one job, and I nailed _why_. _Why_.
Fucking _why_.”
Considine’s, “And why you do what you do yourself,” was very soft. Danny looked away from Jastrow and killed his drink. “Yeah, and that. And why you’re so hopped on Claire De Haven and me. And don’t say out of patriotism.”
Considine laughed. “Kid, would you buy patriotism if I told you the grand jury guarantees me a captaincy, Chief DA’s Investigator and the prestige to keep my son?”
“Yeah, but there’s still De Haven and–”
“Yeah, and me. Let’s just put it this way. I have to know why, too, only I like going at it once removed. Satisfied?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think you would be.”
“Do you _know_ why?”
Considine sipped bourbon. “It wasn’t hard to figure out.”