Jesus, what the man knew. “Right.”
Ho Ho Ho. “Lad, you drive a hard bargain, but will a Chief of Detectives’ Special Inquiry suffice? Say 187 P.C. multiple, various jurisdictions?”
Bud stuck out his hand. “Deal.”
Dudley said, “Stay away from Exley and treat yourself to a grand clean room at the Victory. I’ll be by to see you in a day or so.,,
“You take the car, I got business in Frisco first.”
o o o
He blew forty bucks on a cab, cruised the Golden Gate high on adrenaline. Double cross: a bad deal to survive, then a good deal to win–up from the minors to the majors. Exley had insider tips and sad Trashcan Jack; Dudley had insider juice that almost went psychic. Turnaround: he lied to Dudley to burn down Exley; five years later the man calls it in: lies forgiven, two cops, one torch. San Francisco bright in the distance, Dudley Smith’s voice: “Edmund Jennings Exley.” Chills just saying the name.
Over the bridge, a stop at a pay phone. Long-distance: Lynn’s number, ten rings, no answer. 9:10 P.M., a spooker–she should have been home from the Bureau by dark.
Across town for the drop-off: San Francisco Police Department, Detective Division HQ. Bud pinned on his badge, walked in.
Homicide on floor three–arrows painted on the wall pointed him up. Creaky stairs, a huge squad bay. Nightwatch lull: two men up by the coffee.
They walked over. The younger guy pointed to his shield. “L.A., huh? Help you with something?”
Bud held his ID out. “You’ve got an old 187, like one a pal of mine on the L.A. Sheriff’s caught. He asked me to check out your case file.”
“Well, the captain’s not here now. Maybe you should try in the morning.”
The older man checked his ID. “You’re the guy that’s bugs on prostie jobs. The captain said you keep calling up and you’re a royal pain in the keester. What’s the matter, you got another one?”
“Yeah, Lynette Ellen Kendrick, L.A. County last week. Come on, ten minutes with the file and I’m out of your hair.”
The young guy: “Hey, catch the drift? The captain wanted you to see the file, he woulda sent you an invitation.”
The old guy: “The captain’s a jack-off. What’s our victim’s name and DOD?”
“Chrissie Virginia Renfro, July 16, ’56.”
“Well then, I’ll tell you what you do. You hit the records room around the corner, find your 1956 unsolved cabinet and go to the R’s. You don’t take anything out and you skedaddle before junior here has a migraine. Got it?”
“Got it.”
o o o
Autopsy pictures: orifice rips, facial close-ups–pulp, no real face, ring fragments embedded in cheekbones. Wide-angle shots: the body, found at Chrissie’s pad–a dive across from the St. Francis Hotel.
Pervert shakedown reports–local deviates brought in, questioned, released for lack of evidence. Foot fuckers, sadist pimps, Chrissie’s pimp himself–in the Frisco City Jail when Chrissie was snuffed. Panty sniffers, rape-o’s, Chrissie’s regular johns–all alibied up, no names that crossed to the other case files he’d read.
Canvassing reports: local yokels, guests at the St. Francis. Six loser sheets, a grabber.
7/16/56: a St. Francis bellhop told detectives he caught Spade Cooley’s late show at the hotel’s Lariat Room, then saw Chrissie Virginia Renfro, weaving–“maybe on hop”–walk into her building.
Grabber–Bud sat still, worked it up.
Grab Lynette Ellen Kendrick, DOD L.A. County last week. Grab an unrelated snitch–Lamar Hinton stooling everything in sight. Grabs: Dwight Gilette–Kathy Janeway’s ex-pimp—-supplied whores for Spade Cooley’s parties. Spade was an opium smoker, a “degenerate dope fiend.” Spade was in L.A., playing the El Rancho Klub on the Strip-a mile from Lynette Kenthick’s pad.
First glitch: Spade couldn’t have a jacket, no way to check his blood type–he rode in Sheriff Biscailuz’ volunteer posse–P.R. stuff–nobody with a yellow sheet allowed.
Keep grabbing, check the M.E.’s report, “Bloodstream Contents.” Page 2, a scorcher–“undigested foodstuffs, semen, a heavily narcotizing amount of food-dispersed opium further verified by tar residue in teeth.”
Bud threw his arms up-like he could reach through the roof and haul down the moon. He banged the ceiling, came back to earth thinking–this was not a solo job, he was hiding out from Exley, Dudley just didn’t care. He saw a phone, hit the ceiling, came down with a partner: