Patchett owned an apartment building in Hollywood. A weird shootout took place there–in the middle of the Nite Owl time frame. He caught the squeal himseffi no suspects apprehended, sadomasochist gear in a shot-riddled downstairs unit. The manager claimed not to know the building’s owner–he was paid by mail, suspected a dummy corporation issued him his paycheck. He knew the first name of the apartment’s tenant–“Lamar,” a “big blond guy.” The manager blamed Lamar for the shootout; a Hollywood Division follow-up report stated that Lamar had not been seen since the incident. Incident closed.
Trashcan was late. Move to the Hudgens notes.
God-awful butchery, no hard suspects, Hudgens roundly hated. A lackluster investigation–heat fell briefly on Max Peltz and the _Badge of Honor_ crew–_Hush-Hush_ published an article “exposing” Peltz and his lust for teenage girls. Peltz passed a polygraph test; the rest of the “crew” proffered alibis. Between the lines–Parker considered the victim scum, short-shrifted the case.
Still no Trash. Ed skimmed the alibi sheet.
Max Peltz engaged in statutory rape–heavily implied, no charges filed. Script girl Penny Fulweider home with her husband; Billy Dieterling alibied–Timmy Valburn. Set designer David Mertens–a sickly man suffering from epilepsy and other ailments–alibied by Jerry Marsalas, his live-in male nurse. Star Brett Chase at a party; co-star Miller Stanton likewise. A bust–but Hudgens’ death had to play central to Vincennes’ spring ’53.
Trashcan walked up, sat down. No preims. “You’re calling it in?”
“I’m meeting with Parker tomorrow. I’m sure he’s going to announce a reopening.”
Vincennes laughed. “Then don’t look so grim. If you’re crazy enough to want it, at least act happy.”
Ed placed six shell casings on the table. “Three of these are target rounds I retrieved from your last range practice, three are rounds I took out of a Hollywood Division evidence locker. Identical lands and grooves. April ’53, Jack. You remember that shootout on Cheramoya?”
Trash grabbed the table. “Keep going.”
“Pierce Patchett owns that building on Cheramoya, and it’s a nicely hidden ownership. S&M gear was found on the premises, and Patchett is a K.A. of Lynn Bracken, Bud White’s girlfriend, who you denied knowing. You were working a smut job for Ad Vice then, and smut and sadomasochist paraphernalia are in the same ballpark. The last time we talked you admitted that Hudgens had a file on you, that that was why you were all over the place then. Here’s my big leap, so correct me if I’m wrong. Bracken and Patchett were K.A.’s of Hudgens.”
Vincennes dug his hands in–the table shook. “So you’re a smart fucker. So what?”
“So did Bud White know Hudgens?”
“No, I don’t think–”
“What does White have on Patchett and Bracken?”
“I don’t know. Exley, look–”
“No, _you_ look. And you answer me. Did you get Hudgens’ file on you?”
Trashcan, sweating. “Yeah, I did.”
“Who from?”
“The Bracken woman.”
“How did you get it out of her?”
“Deposition threat. I wrote out a deposition on her and Patchett, everything I put together about them. I made carbons and stashed them in safe-deposit boxes.”
“And you–”
“Yeah, I’ve still got them. And they’ve still got a carbon on me.”
Educated guess. “And Patchett was pushing that smut you were chasing?”
“Yeah. Exley, look–”
“No, Vincennes, _you_ look. Do you still have copies of the smut books?”
“I’ve got the depositions and the books. You want them, I get my evidence suppression wiped. And half the Nite Owl collar.”
“A third. There’s no way to make the case without White.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Room 6 at Victory. Dudley, a muscle creep chained to the hot seat. Dot Rothstein ogling _Playboy_. Bud watched her scope cheesecake: a bull-dyke cop in a Hughes Aircraft jumpsuit.
Dudley skimmed a rap sheet. “Lamar Hinton, age thirty-one. One ADW conviction, a former telephone company employee strongly suspected of installing bootleg bookie lines for Jack ‘The Enforcer’ Whalen. A parole absconder since April 1953. Lad, I think it is safe to refer to you as an organized crime associate, thus someone in need of reeducation in the ways of polite society.”
Hinton licked his lips; Dudley smiled. “You came along peacefully, which is to your credit. You did not give us a song and dance about your civil rights, which, since you don’t have any, speaks well of your intelligence. Now, my job is to deter and contain organized crime in Los Angeles, and I have found that physical force often serves as the most persuasive corrective measure. Lad, I will ask questions, you will answer them. If I am satisfied with your answers, Sergeant Wendell White will remain in his chair. Now, why did you abscond your parole in April 1953?”