The exhibit was a bore–a sop to culture. Inez pointed to the ladies’ room; Ed stepped outside.
A VIP tour on the promenade–Timmy Valburn shepherding bigwigs. The _Herald_ front page hit him: Dream-a-Dreamland, the Nite Owl, like nothing else mattered.
He tried to reinterrogate Coates, Jones and Fontaine–they would not give him one word. Eyewitnesses responded to the appeal for IDs on the Griffith Park shooters and could not identify the three in custody: they said they “can’t quite be sure.” Vehicle checks now extended to ’48–’50 Fords and Chevys– nothing hot so far. Jockeying for command of the case: Chief Parker supported Dudley Smith, Thad Green pumped up Russ Millard. No shotguns found, no trace of Sugar Ray’s Mere. Wallets and purses belonging to the victims were found in a sewer a few blocks from the Tevere Hotel—combine that with the matching shells found in Griffith Park and you got what the papers didn’t report: Ellis Loew bullying Parker to bully him: “It’s all circumstantial so far, so have your boy Exley keep working on that Mexican girl, it looks like he’s getting next to her, have him talk her into a questioning session under sodium pentothal, let’s get some juicy Little Lindbergh details and fix the Nite Owl time frame once and for all.”
Inez sat down beside him. They had a view: the Amazon, plaster mountains. Ed said, “Are you all right? Do you want to go back?”
“What I want is a cigarette, and I don’t even smoke.”
“Then don’t start. Inez–”
“Yes, I’ll move into your cabin.”
Ed smiled. “When did you make up your mind?”
Inez tucked her veil under her hat. “I saw a newspaper in the bathroom, and Ellis Loew was gloating about me. He sounded happy, so I figured I’d put some distance between us. You know, I never thanked you for my bonnet.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Yes I do, because I’m naturally bad-mannered around Anglos who treat me nice.”
“If you’re waiting for the punch line, there isn’t any.”
“Yes, there is. And for the record again, I won’t tell you about it, I won’t look at pictures, and I won’t testify.”
“Inez, I submitted a recommendation that we let you rest up for now.”
“And ‘for now’s’ a punch line, and the other punch line’s that you go for me, which is okay, because I’ve looked better in my time and no Mexican man would ever want a Mexican girl who was gang-raped by a bunch of _negrito putos_, not that I’ve ever gone for Mexican guys anyway. You know what’s scary, Exley?”
“I told you, it’s Ed.”
Inez rolled her eyes. “I’ve got a creep brother named Eduardo, so I’ll call you Exley. You know what’s scary? What’s scary is that I feel good today because this place is like a wonderful dream, but I know that it’s got to get really bad again because what happened was a hundred times more real than this. Do you understand?”
“I understand. For now, though, you should try trusting me.”
“I don’t trust you, Exley. Not ‘for now,’ maybe not ever.”
“I’m the only one you can trust.”
Inez flipped her veil down. “I don’t trust you because you don’t hate them for what they did. Maybe you think you do, but you’re helping your career out at the same time. Officer White, he hates them. He killed a man who hurt me. He’s not as smart as you, so maybe I can trust him.”
Ed reached a hand out–Inez slid away. “I want them dead. _Absolutamente meurto. Comprende?_”
“I _comprende_. Do you _comprende_ that your beloved Officer White is a goddamned thug?”
“Only if you _comprende_ that you’re jealous of him. Look, oh God.”
Ray Dieterling, his father. Ed stood up; Inez stood up starry-eyed. Preston said, “Raymond Dieterling, my son Edmund. Edmund, will you introduce the young lady?”
Inez, straight to Dieterling. “Sir, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve been . . . oh, I’m just a big fan.”
Dieterling took her hand. “Thank you, dear. And your name?”
“Inez Soto. I’ve seen . . . oh, I’m just a big fan.”
Dieterling smiled, sad–the girl’s story front-page news. He turned to Ed. “Sergeant, a pleasure.”