“God, you miss the Department. I think that if you could give up Exley Construction and fifty thousand a year for a spot as an LAPD rookie, you would.”
De Spain lit a cigar. “Only if your dad came with me.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that. I was a lieutenant to Preston’s inspector, and I’m still a number two man. It’d be nice to be even with him.”
“If you didn’t know lumber, Exley Construction wouldn’t exist.”
“Thanks. And get rid of those glasses.”
Ed picked up a framed photo: his brother Thomas in uniform–taken the day before he died. “If you were a rookie, I’d break you for insubordination.”
“You would, too. What did you place on the lieutenant’s exam?”
“First out of twenty-three applicants. I was the youngest applicant by eight years, with the shortest time in grade as a sergeant and the shortest amount of time on the Department.”
“And you want the Detective Bureau.”
Ed put the photo down. “Yes.”
“Then, first you have to figure a year minimum for an opening to come up, then you have to realize that it will probably be a Patrol opening, then you have to realize that a transfer to the Bureau will take years and lots of ass kissing. You’re twenty-nine now?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’ll be a lieutenant at thirty or thirty-one. Brass that young create resentment. Ed, all kidding aside. You’re not one of the guys. You’re not a strongarm type. _You’re not Bureau_. And Parker as Chief has set a precedent for Patrol officers to go all the way. Think about that.”
Ed said, “Art, I want to work cases. I’m connected and I won the Distinguished Service Cross, which some people might construe as strongarm. And I will _have_ a Bureau appointment.”
De Spain brushed ash off his cummerbund. “Can we talk turkey, Sunny Jim?”
The endearment rankled. “Of course.”
“Well . . . you’re good, and in time you might be really good. And I don’t doubt your killer instinct for a second. But your father was ruthless and likable. And you’re not, so . .
Ed made fists. “So, Uncle Arthur? Cop who left the Department for money to cop who never would–what’s your advice?”
De Spain ifinched. “So be a sycophant and suck up to the right men. Kiss William H. Parker’s ass and pray to be in the right place at the right time.”
“Like you and my father?”
“_Touché_, Sunny Jim.”
Ed looked at his uniform: custom blues on a hanger. Razorcreased, sergeant’s stripes, a single hashmark. De Spain said, “Gold bars soon, Eddie. And braid on your cap. And I wouldn’t jerk your chain if I didn’t care.”
“I know.”
“And you _are_ a goddamned war hero.”
Ed changed the subject. “It’s Christmas. You’re thinking about Thomas.”
“I keep thinking I could have told him something. He didn’t even have his holster flap open.”
“A purse snatcher with a gun? He couldn’t have known.” De Spain put out his cigar. “Thomas was a natural, and I always thought he should be telling me things. That’s why I tend to spell things out for you.”
“He’s twelve years dead and I’ll bury him as a policeman.”
“I’ll forget you said that.”
“No, remember it. Remember it when I make the Bureau. And when Father offers toasts to Thomas and Mother, don’t get maudlin, it ruins him for days.”
De Spain stood up, flushing; Preston Exley walked in with snifters and a bottle.
Ed said, “Merry Christmas, Father. And congratulations.”
Preston poured drinks. “Thank you. Exley Construction tops the Arroyo Seco Freeway job with a kingdom for a glorified rodent, and I’ll never eat another piece of cheese. A toast, gentlemen. To the eternal rest of my son Thomas and my wife Marguerite, to the three of us assembled here.”
The men drank; De Spain fixed refills. Ed offered his father’s favorite toast: “To the solving of crimes that require absolute justice.”
Three more shots downed. Ed said, “Father, I didn’t know you knew Raymond Dieterling.”
Preston smiled. “I’ve known him in a business sense for years. Art and I have kept the contract secret at Raymond’s request–he wants to announce it on that infantile television program of his.”