A trail of clothes on the living room floor. The picture frame gone.
Into the bedroom, scared, his gun in the car.
Empty cabinets and drawers. The bed stripped. Into the bathroom.
Toothpaste and Kotex spilled in the shower. Glass shelves smashed in the sink.
Getaway–fifteen-minute style.
Back to West Hollywood–fast. Bobby Inge’s door caved in easy; Jack went in gun first.
Clean-out number two–a better job.
A clean living room, pristine bathroom, bedroom showing empty dresser drawers. A can of sardines in the icebox. The kitchen trashcan clean, a fresh paper bag lining it.
Jack tore the pad up: living room, bedroom, bathroom, kitchen–shelves knocked over, rugs pulled, the toilet yanked apart. He stopped on a flash: garbage cans, full, lined both sides of the street–
There or gone.
Figure an hour-twenty since his run-in with Inge: the fuck wouldn’t run straight to his crib. He probably got off the street, cruised back slow, risked the move out with his car parked in the alley. He figured the roust was for his old warrants or the smut gig; he knew he was standing heat and couldn’t be caught harboring pornography. He wouldn’t risk carrying it in his car–the odds on a shake were too strong. The gutter or the trash, right near the top of the cans, maybe more skin IDs for Big Trashcan Jack.
Jack hit the sidewalk, rooted in trashcans–gaggles of kids laughed at him. One, two, three, four, five–two left before the corner. No lid on the last can; glossy black paper sticking out.
Jack beelined.
Three fuck mags right on top. Jack grabbed them, ran back to his car, skimmed–the kids made goo-goo eyes at the windshield. The same Hollywood backdrops, Bobby Inge with boys and girls, unknown pretties screwing. Halfway through the third book the pix went haywire.
Orgies, hole-to-hole daisy chains, a dozen people on a quiltcovered floor. Disembodied limbs: red sprays off arms, legs. Jack squinted, eye-strain, the red was colored ink, the photos doctored–limb severings faked, ink blood flowing in artful little swirls.
Jack tried for IDs; obscene perfection distracted him: inkbleeding nudes, no faces he knew until the last page: Christine Bergeron and her son fucking, standing on skates planted on a scuffed hardwood floor.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A photograph, dropped in his mailbox: Sergeant Ed Exley bleeding and terrified. No printing on the back, no need for it: Stensland and White had the negative, insurance that he’d never try to break them.
Ed, alone in the squadroom, 6:00 A.M. The stitches on his chin itched; loose teeth made eating impossible. Thirty-odd hours since the moment–his hands still trembled.
Payback.
He didn’t tell his father; he couldn’t risk the ignominy of going to Parker or Internal Affairs. Revenge on Bud White would be tricky: he was Dudley Smith’s boy, Smith just got him a straight Homicide spot and was grooming him for his chief strongarm. Stensland was more vulnerable: on probation, working for Abe Teitlebaum, an ex–Mickey Cohen goon. A drunk, begging to go back inside.
Payback–already in the works.
Two Sheriff’s men bought and paid for: a dip in his mother’s trust fund. A two-man tail on Dick Stens, two men to swoop on his slightest probation fuckup.
Payback.
Ed did paperwork. His stomach growled: no food, loose trousers weighted down by his holster. A voice out the squawk box: loud, spooked.
“Squad call! Nite Owl Coffee Shop one-eight-two-four Cherokee! Multiple homicides! See the patrolmen! Code three!”
Ed banged his legs getting up. No other detectives on call–it was his.
o o o
Patrol cars at Hollywood and Cherokee; blues setting up crime scene blockades. No plainclothesmen in sight–he might get first crack.
Ed pulled up, doused his siren. A patrolman ran over. “Load of people down, maybe some of them women. I found them, stopped for coffee and saw this phony sign on the door, ‘Closed for Illness.’ Man, the Nite Owl _never_ closes. It was dark inside and I knew this was a hinky deal. Exley, this ain’t your squawk, this has gotta be downtown stuff, so–”
Ed pushed him aside, pushed over to the door. Open, a sign taped on: “Clossed Due to Illness.” Ed stepped inside, memorized.