Eyes on the bullpen back door: blues hauling in sex geeks. Bud White inside–rubber hose work. He blew his tail last night–Dudley was pissed. Tonight he’d stick close, then hit Hudgens: get the Malibu Rendezvous wiped.
White walked out. Good light: Jack saw blood on his shirt. He hit the ignition, waited.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
No colored lights–white light behind closed curtains. Bud pushed the buzzer.
The door opened–backlight on Lynn Bracken. “Yes? Are you the policeman Pierce told me about?”
“That’s right. Did Patchett tell you what it was about?”
She held the door open. “He said you weren’t quite sure yourself, and he said I should be candid and cooperate with you.”
“You do everything he tells you?”
“Yes, I do.”
Bud walked in. Lynn said, “The paintings are real and I’m a prostitute. I’ve never heard of Kathy what’s-her-name, and Dwight Gilette would never sexually abuse a female. If he were going to kill one, he would have used a knife. I have heard of that man Duke Cathcart, essentially that he was a loser with a soft spot for his girls. And that’s all the news that’s fit to print.”
“You finished?”
“No. I have no information on Dwight’s other girls, and all I know about that Nite Owl thing is what I read in the papers. Satisfied?”
Bud almost laughed. “You and Patchett had _some_ talk. Did he call you last night?”
“No, this morning. Why?”
“Never mind.”
“It’s Officer White, isn’t it?”
“It’s Bud.”
Lynn laughed. “_Bud_, do you believe what Pierce and I have told you?”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
“And you know why we’re humoring you.”
“You use words like that, you might make me mad.”
“Yes. But you know.”
“Yeah, I know. Patchett’s running whores, maybe other stuff on the side. You don’t want me to report you on it.”
“That’s right. Our motives are selfish, so we’re cooperating.”
“You want some advice, Miss Bracken?”
“It’s Lynn.”
“Miss Bracken, here’s my advice. Keep cooperating and don’t fucking ever try to bribe me or threaten me or I’ll have you and Patchett in shit up to your ears.”
Lynn smiled. Bud caught it–Veronica Lake in some turkey he saw, Alan Ladd comes home from the war to find his bitch wife snuffed. “Do you want a drink, _Bud?_”
“Yeah, plain scotch.”
Lynn walked to the kitchen, came back with two short ones. “Are they making progress on the girl’s killing?”
Bud knocked his back. “There’s three men on it. It’s a sex job, so they’ll round up all the usual perverts. They’ll give it a decent shot for a couple of weeks, then let it go.”
“But you won’t let it go.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“Why are you so concerned?”
“Old stuff”
“Old personal stuff?”
“Yeah.”
Lynn sipped her drink. “Just asking. And what about the Nite Owl thing?”
“That’s coming down to these mg–colored guys we arrested. It’s a big fucking mess.”
“You say ‘fuck’ a lot.”
“You fuck for money.”
“There’s blood on your shirt. Is that an integral part of your job?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
“When they deserve it.”
“Meaning men who hurt women.”
“Bright girl.”
“Did they deserve it today?”
“No.”
“But you did it anyway.”
“Yeah, just like the half dozen guys you screwed today.”
Lynn laughed. “Actually, it was two. Off the record, did you beat up Dwight Gilette?”
“Off the record, I stuck his hand down a garbage disposal.”
No gasp, no double take. “Did you enjoy it?”
“Well . . . no.”
Lynn coughed. “I’m being a bad hostess. Would you like to sit down?”
Bud sat on the sofa; Lynn sat an arm’s length over. “Homicide detectives are different. You’re the first man I’ve met in five years who didn’t tell me I look like Veronica Lake inside of a minute.”
“You look better than Veronica Lake.”
Lynn lit a cigarette. “Thank you. I won’t tell your lady friend you said that.”
“How do you know I got a lady friend?”
“Your jacket is a mess and reeks of perfume.”
“You’re wrong. This is me taking a pass on a pass.”
“Which you . .
“Yeah, which I seldom fucking do. Keep cooperating, Miss Bracken. Tell me about Pierce Patchett and this racket of his.”