Bud drove to Hollywood Station–Inez on his mind, Dudley, Dick Stens along with her. Guts: she tried to claw herself off the gurney to get at Sylvester Fitch, strapped dead to a morgue cot; she screamed: “I’m dead, I want them dead!” He hustled her to the ambulance, filched morphine and a hypo, shot her up while no one was looking. The worst of it should have been over–but the worst was still coming.
Exley would interrogate her, make her spit out details, look at sex offender pix until she cracked. Ellis Loew wanted an airtight case–that meant show-ups, courtroom testimony. Inez Soto: the first headliner witness for the most ambitious D.A. who ever breathed–all he could do was see her at the hospital, say “Hi,” try to muffle the blows. A brave woman shoved at Ed Exley– fodder for a cowardly hard-on.
Inez to Stens.
Good revenge: Danny Duck masks, Exley whimpering. The photo good insurance; Dick still jacked up on blood–a taste that told him he was still on the muscle. His job at Kikey T.’s deli stunk–the dump was a known grifter hangout, a probation rap waiting to happen. Stens sleeping in his car, boozing, gambling–jail taught him absolutely shit.
Bud cut north on Vine; sunlight picked up his reflection in the windshield. His necktie stood out: LAPD shields, 2’s. The 2’s stood for the men he killed; he’d have to get some new ties made up–3’s to add on Sylvester Fitch. Dudley’s idea: _esprit de corps_ for Surveillance. Snappy stuff: women got a kick out of them. Dudley was a kick–in the teeth, in the brains.
He owed him more than he owed Dick Stens–the man frosted Bloody Christmas, got him Surveillance, then Homicide. But when Dudley Smith brought you along you belonged to him–and he was so much smarter than everyone else that you were never sure what he wanted from you or how he was using you–shit got lost in all his fancy language. It didn’t quite rankle, but you felt it; it scared you to see how Mike Breuning and Dick Carlisle gave the man their souls. Dudley could bend you, shape you, twist you, turn you, point you–and never make you feel like some dumb lump of clay. But he always let you know one thing: he knew you better than you knew yourself.
No streetside parking-every space taken. Bud parked three blocks over, walked up to the squadroom. No Exley, every desk occupied: men talking into phones, taking notes. A giant bulletin boar-d all Nite Owl–paper six inches thick. Two women at a table, a switchboard behind them, a sign by their feet: “R&I/DMV Requests.” Bud went over, talked over phone noise. “I’m on the Cathcart check, and I want all you can get me, known associates, the works. This clown was popped twice for statch rape. I want full details on the complainants, plus current addresses. He had three pimping rousts, no convictions, and I want you to check all the local city and county vice squads to see if he’s got a file. If he does, I want names on the girls he was running. If you get names, get DOBs and run them back through R&I, DMV, City/County Parole, the Woman’s Jail. _Details_. You got it?”
The girls hit the switchboard; Bud hit the bulletin board: paper tagged “Victim Lunceford.” One update: a Hollywood squad officer talked to Lunceford’s boss at the Mighty Man Agency. Facts: Lunceford patronized the Nite Owl virtually every early A.M.–after he got off his 6:00-to-2:00 shift at the Pickwick Bookstore Building; Lunceford was a typical wino security guard not permitted to carry a sidearm; Lunceford had no known enemies, no known friends, no known lady friends, did not associate with his fellow Mighty Men, slept in a pup tent behind the Hollywood Bowl. The tent was checked out, inventoried: a sleeping bag, four Mighty Man uniforms, six bottles of Old Monterey muscatel.
Adios, shitbird–you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Bud checked Lunceford’s arrest record: nineteen minor felony pops in eleven years as a cop, scratch revenge as a motive, kill six to get one stunk as a motive anyway. Still no Exley, no Breuning and Carlisle. Bud remembered Dudley’s memo: check the station files for Lunceford listings.