Coates cracked his knuckles; his good eye darted, ifickered. Ed killed the audio. “Ray, let’s change the subject.”
“How ’bout baseball, motherfucker?”
“No, let’s talk about pussy. Did you get laid last night or did you put that perfume on yourself to fuck up a paraffm test?”
Heebie-jeebie shakes.
Ed said, “Where were you at 3:00 last night?”
No answer, more shakes.
“Strike a nerve, Sugar Ray? _Perfume?_ _Women?_ Even a piece of shit like you has to have some women he cares about. You got a mother? Sisters?”
“Man, don’t you talk ’bout my mother!”
“Ray, if I didn’t know you I’d say you were protecting some nice girl’s virtue. She was your alibi, you were shacked somewhere. But Tyrone and Leroy have got that same perfume on their mitts, and I’m betting against a gang bang, I’m betting you learned about paraffin tests up in road camp, I’m betting you’ve got just enough decency to feel some guilt over killing three innocent women.”
“I AINT KILLED NOBODY!”
Ed pulled out the morning _Herald_. “Patty Chesimard, Donna DeLuca and one unidentified. Read this while I take a breather. When I come back you’ll get the chance to tell me about it and make a deal that just might save your life.”
Coates, Tremor City–all twitches, soaked denims. Ed threw the paper in his face and walked out.
Thad Green in the hall; Dudley Smith, Bud White at the listening post. Green said, “We got an eyeball confirmation from that ranger–those were the guys in Griffith Park. And you were great.”
Ed smelled his own sweat. “Sir, Coates was hiked on the women. I can feel it.”
“So can I, so just keep going.”
“Have we turned the guns or the car?”
“No, and the 77th Street squad is shaking down their relatives and K.A.’s. We’ll get them.”
“I want to lean on Jones next. Will you do something for me?”
“Name it.”
“Set up Fontaine. Unlock his cuffs and let him read the morning paper.”
Green pointed to the #3 mirror. “_He’ll_ break soon. Sniveling bastard.”
Tyrone Jones–weeping, a piss puddle on the floor by his chair. Ed looked away. “Sir, have Lieutenant Smith read the paper into his speaker, nice and slow, especially the lines about the car spotted by the Nite Owl. I want this guy primed to fold.”
Green said, “You’ve got it.” Ed checked out Tyrone Jones–dark-skinned, flabby, pockmarked. Bawling–cuffed in, welded down.
A whistle up the hail. Dudley Smith spoke into a microphone–silent lip movements. Ed fixed on Jones.
The kid twisted, heaved, buckled, like a film clip they showed at the Academy: an electric chair malfunction, a dozen jolts before the man fried. A sharp whistle up the corridor–Jones slumped, legs splayed, chin down.
Ed walked in. “Tyrone, Ray Coates ratted you off. He said the Nite Owl was your idea, he said you got the idea while you were cruising Griffith Park. Tyrone, tell me about it. I think it was Ray’s idea. He made you do it. Tell me where the guns and car are and I think we can save your life.”
No answer.
“Tyrone, this is a gas chamber job. If you don’t talk to me you’ll be dead in six months.”
No answer–Jones kept his head down.
“Son, all you have to do is tell me where the guns are and tell me where Sugar left the car.”
No answer.
“Son, this can be over in one minute. You tell me, and I get you transferred to a protective custody cell. Sugar won’t be able to get you, Leroy won’t be able to get you. The D.A. will let you turn state’s. _You won’t go to the gas chamber_.”
No response.
“Son, six people are dead and somebody has to pay. It can be you or it can be Ray.”
No answer.
“Tyrone, he called you a queer. He called you a sissy and a homo. He said you took it up the–”
“I DIDN’ KILL NOBODY!”
A strong voice–Ed almost jumped back. “Son, we have witnesses. We have evidence. Coates is confessing right now. He’s saying you planned the whole thing. Son, save yourself. The guns, the car. _Tell me where they are_.”