Hilda squinted at the picture. “Oh, Susie. No, I don’t think I know that name.”
“Did Susan’s boyfriend ever mention the name ‘Duke Cathcart’ or mention a pornography business?”
“No! Cathcart was the name of one of the dead people where Susie died, and Susie was a good girl who would never associate with filth!”
Bud forked over County Relief. “Easy now. Tell me about the ruckus.”
Hilda, tears coming on. “I came home the next day, and I thought I saw dried blood on the floor of the new den, I’d just had it built with the money from my husband’s insurance policy. Susan and the man came back and acted nervous. The man crawled around under the house and called a Los Angeles phone number, then he and Susan Nancy left. A week later she was killed . . . and . . . I, well, I thought all that suspicious behavior meant the killings . . . I just thought of conspiracies and reprisals, and when that nice man who became such a hero came by a few days later with his background check, I just stayed quiet.”
Goose bumps: Susie Lefferts’ boyfriend the Cathcart impersonator. “The ruckus”: the boyfriend kills Cathcart–probably in San Berdoo to talk to the Engleklings. Susie at the Nite Owl, scoping out some kind of meeting, the boyfriend playing Cathcart–which meant the killers never saw the real Cathcart face-to-face.
THE BOYFRIEND CRAWLING AROUND UNDER THE HOUSE.
Bud got the phone, the operator, an L.A. number: P.C. Bell police information. A clerk came on. “Yes, who’s requesting?”
“Sergeant W. White, LAPD. I’m in San Bernardino at RAnchview 04617. I need a list of all calls to Los Angeles from that number, say from March 20 to April 12, 1953. Got that?”
The clerk said, “I copy.” Seconds, two minutes plus, the clerk back on. “Three calls, Sergeant. April 2 and April 8, all to the same number, HO-21 118. That’s a pay phone, the corner of Sunset and Las Palmas.”
Bud hung up. Phone booth calls a half mile from the Nite Owl; the deal or the meet worked out–extra cautious.
Hilda fretted Kleenex. Bud saw a flashlight on an end table. He grabbed it, ran with it.
Outside to the add-on, a foundation crawispace–one tight fit. Down, under, in.
Dirt, wood pilings, a long burlap sack up ahead. Smells: mothballs, rot. An elbow crawl to the bag–mothballs and rot getting stronger. He poked the sack, saw a rat’s nest explode.
All around him: rats blinded by light.
Bud ripped burlap. In with the flashlight, rats, a skull caked with gristle. Drop the flash, rip two-handed, rats and mothballs in his face. A huge rip, a bullet hole in the skull, a skeleton hand out a sleeve–“D.C.” on flannel.
He crawled out gulping air. Hilda Lefferts was right there. Her eyes said, “Please God, not that.”
Clean air; clean daylight almost blinding. White light gave him the idea–his shiv at Exley.
A scandal mag leak. A guy at _Whisper_ owed him–a pinko rag, they bled for Commies and jigs and hated cops.
Hilda, about to shit her drawers. “Was . . . there . . . anything under there?”
“Nothing but some rats. I want you to stay put, though. I’m gonna bring back some mugshots for you to look at.”
“May I have that last check?”
The envelope–flecked with rat droppings. “Here. Compliments of Captain Ed Exley.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
A nice interrogation room– no bolted-down chairs, no piss smell. Jack looked at Ed Exley. “I knew I was in the shit, but I didn’t think I rated the top dog.”
Exley: “You’re probably wondering why you haven’t been suspended.”
Jack stretched. His uniform chafed–he hadn’t worn it since 1945. Exley looked creepy–skinny, gray-haired, rimless glasses that made his eyes come off brutal. “I was wondering. My guess is Ellis had seconds thoughts on the complaint he filed. Bad publicity and all that.”
Exley shook his head. “Loew considers you a liability to his career and his marriage, and leaving that crime scene and assaulting that officer are enough in themselves to warrant a suspension and a dismissal.”
“Yeah? Then why haven’t I been suspended?”