“You have to look at his background, how he lost a little girl to crib death. I’m sure your policeman’s mentality can grasp the cause and effect, even if you can’t accept it.”
“Let’s talk about his background then. You’ve described Patchett as a fmancier with L.A. roots going back thirty years. You’ve said that he puts deals together, so be specific about the deals.”
Lynn sighed–pure panache. “Movie financing deals, real estate and contracting deals. Here’s one for all you movie fans in the audience: Pierce told me he’d financed a few of Raymond Dieterling’s early shorts.”
Cozy: Bud White’s girlfriend’s pimp knew Preston Exley’s good buddy. Kleckner changed tape. Ed studied the whore.
Beautiful–a good part of it hung on the fact that she wasn’t perfect. Her nose was too pointed; she had crease lines on her forehead. Big shoulders, big hands–beautifully formed, all the more stunning for being large. Blue eyes that probably danced when a man said the right thing; she probably thought Bud White had primitive integrity and respected him for not trying to impress her with gifts he didn’t have. She kept her clothing subtle because she knew it would make more of an impression on the people she wanted to impress; she thought most men were weak and trusted her brains to slide her through anything. Suppositions leading up to a hunch: couple her brains with the counterdope in her system and you got a pentothal-immune witness dissembling with impunity–and style.
“Captain, you got a call. It’s Vincennes.”
Fisk had his phone, stretched to the end of the cord. Ed took it. “Vincennes?”
“Yeah, and listen close, ’cause that scandal sheet story was kosher and there’s lots more.”
“White?”
“Yeah, White was that phony P.I., and he braced old lady Lefferts two months or so ago. She told him that story of her daughter’s boyfriend who looked like Duke Cathcart and another doozie.”
“_What?_”
“Just listen. A couple weeks before the Nite Owl, a neighbor saw Susie and the boyfriend alone at the house and heard them get into a ruckus with another guy. The boyfriend was seen crawling around under the house later that same day. Now, when White braced the old lady, he called P.C. Bell and checked their records for toll calls from the house to L.A. mid-March to mid-April ’53. I did the same thing and got three tollers, all to a pay phone in Hollywood near the Nite Owl. Now, you think that’s hot, you–”
“Goddammit–”
“Captain, _listen_. White crawled around under the house and told granny there was nothing there. I went under and found a stiff, wrapped in mothballs to kill the stink and a fucking bullet hole in the head. I got Doc Layman up to San Berdoo. He brought Duke Carthcart’s prison dental file, the Coroner’s Office copy. It was a perfect match. The first ID was bogus, off a partial plate, just like that article said. Fuck, I can’t believe White put all this together and just left the stiff there. Captain, you there?”
Ed grabbed Fisk. “Where’s Bud White?”
Fisk looked scared. “I heard he went up north with Dudley Smith. The Mann Sheriff’s decided to kick loose on the Engleklings.”
Back to Trashcan. “That article said the woman saw some mugs.”
“Yeah, White brought back some shots marked ‘State Records Bureau.’ Now we both know the state sets run light, so my guess is White didn’t want to bring her down here to check our books. Anyway, she couldn’t ID the boyfriend, and if the boyfriend was one of the Nite Owl stiffs we’ll have him, ’cause Nort Layman took prison dental plate fragments out of his head back in ’53. Bring her down? Show her our books?”
“Do it.”
Fisk took the phone. Ray Pinker walked up, holding a chem sheet. “Prestilphyozine, Captain. It’s an extremely rare experimental antipsychotic drug used to tranquilize violent mental patients. Somebody professional slipped it to our lady friend, because only a pro would know this breed of phyozine would be likely to counteract penthothal. Skipper, you should sit down, you look like you’re about to have a coronary.”
Chemistry whiz Patchett; the Englekling brothers’ father: a themist who developed antipsychotic compounds. Bud White’s whore across the glass–alone now, a tape recorder spinning.