Inez took friendships from a fantasy kingdom: the builders, the second generation–Billy Dieterling, Timmy Valburn. A chatty little clique: they talked up Hollywood gossip, poked fun at male foibles. The word “men” sent them into gales of laughter. They made fun of policemen and played charades in a house bought by Captain Ed Exley.
All claims came back to Inez.
After the killings, he had nightmares: were they innocent? Impotent rage made his finger jerk the trigger; the dramatic resolution made the Department look so good that little facts like “Unarmed” and “Not Dangerous” would never surface to crush him. Inez stilled his fears with a statement: the rapists drove her to Sylvester Fitch’s house in the middle of the night and left her there–giving them time to take down the Nite Owl. She never told the police about it because she did not want to recount the especially ugly things that Fitch did to her. He was relieved: _guilty_ dead men shored up the justice in his rage.
Inez.
Time passed, the glow wore off–her pain and his heroism couldn’t sustain them. Inez knew he’d never marry her: a high-ranking cop, a Mexican wife–career suicide. His love held by threads; Inez grew remote–a sometime lover in practice. Two people molded by extraordinary events, a powerful supporting cast hovering: the Nite Owl dead, Bud White.
White’s face in the green room: pure hatred while Dick Stensland sucked gas. A look at Dicky Stens dying, a look his way, no words necessary. Leave time called in so they wouldn’t have to work together when he took over Homicide. He’d surpassed his brother, grown closer to his father. His major case record was astounding; in May he’d be an inspector, in a few years he’d compete with Dudley Smith for chief of detectives. Smith had always given him a wide berth and a wary respect couched in contempt–and Dudley was the most feared man in the LAPD. Did he know that his rival feared only one thing: revenge perpetrated by a thug/cop without the brains to be imaginative?
The bar was filling up: D.A.’s personnel, a few women. The last time with Inez was bad–she just serviced the man who paid the mortgage. Ed smiled at a tall woman–she turned away.
“Congratulations, Cap. You’re Boy Scout clean.”
Gallaudet sat down–strained, nervous.
“Then why do you look so grim? Come on, Bob, we’re partners.”
“_You’re_ clean, but Inez was put under loose surveillance for two weeks, just routine. Ed . . . oh shit, she’s sleeping with Bud White.”
o o o
The ceremony–one big blur.
Parker made a speech: policemen were subject to the same temptations as civilians, but needed to keep their baser urges in check to a greater degree in order to serve as moral exemplars for a society increasingly undercut by the pervasive influence of Communism, crime, liberalism and general moral turpitude. A morally upright exemplar was needed to command the division that served as a guarantor of police morality, and Captain Edmund J. Exley, war hero and hero of the Nite Owl murder case, was that man.
He made a speech himself: more pap on morality. Duane Fisk and Don Kleckner wished him luck; he read their minds through his blur: they wanted his chief assistant spots. Dudley Smith winked, easy to read: “I will be our next chief of detectives–not you.” Excuses for leaving took forever–he made it to her place with the blur clearing hard.
6:00–Inez got home around 7:00. Ed let himself in, waited with the lights out.
Time dragged; Ed watched his watch hands move. 6:50–a key in the door.
“Exley, are you skulking? I saw your car outside.”
“No lights. I don’t want to see your face.” Noises–keys rattling, a purse dropped to the floor. “And I don’t want to see all that faggot Dreamland junk you’ve plastered on the walls.”
“You mean the walls of the house you paid for?”
“You said it, not me.”
Sounds: Inez resting herself against the door. “Who told you?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Are you going to ruin him for it?”
“_Him?_ No, there’s no way I could do it without making myself look even more foolish than I’ve been. And you can say his name.”