Bungalows lined both sides of the street; a sign designated it “La Paloma Dr, 1900 N.” Danny speeded up, the blacktop getting steeper, no other moving cars in sight. Bungalow lights gave him some illumination; La Paloma Drive became a summit and leveled off–and there was his brown sedan on the roadside, the driver’s door open.
Danny pulled up behind it, hit his brights, unholstered his piece. He got out and walked over, gun arm first. He looked in the front seat and saw nothing but neat velveteen upholstery; he stepped back and saw a ‘48 Pontiac Super Chief, abandoned on a half-developed street surrounded by totally dark hills.
His heart was booming; his throat was dry; his legs were butter and his gun hand twitched. He listened and heard nothing but himself; he scanned for escape routes and saw a dozen driveways leading into back yards and the entire rear of the Santa Monica Mountains.
Danny thought: think procedure, go slow, you’re interagency Homicide brass. The “brass” calmed him; he tucked his .45 into his waistband, knelt and checked out the front seat.
Nothing on the seat covers; the registration strapped to the steering column–right where it should be. Danny undid the plastic strip without touching flat surfaces, held it up to the light of his highbeams and read:
Wardell John Hascomb, 9816 1/4 South Iola, Los Angeles. Registration number Cal 416893-H; license number Cal JO 1338.
LA South Central, darktown, the area where the killer stole the Marty Goines transport car.
HIM.
Danny got fresh shakes, drove back to Sunset and headed west until he spotted a filling station with a pay phone. With shaky hands, he slipped a nickel in the slot and dialed DMV Police Information.
“Yeah? Who’s requesting?”
“D-Deputy Upshaw, West Hollywood Squad.”
“The guy from half an hour or so ago?”
“Goddamn–yes, and check the Hot Sheet for this: 1948 Pontiac Super Chief Sedan, Cal JO 1338. If it’s hot, I want the address it was stolen from.”
“Gotcha,” silence. Danny stood in the phone booth, warm one second, chilled the next. He took out his pad and pen, ready to write down what the operator gave him; he saw “Augie Luis Duarte” and snapped why it seemed familiar: there was a Juan Duarte in the UAES info he studied–meaning nothing–Duarte was as common a Mex name as Garcia or Hernandez.
The operator came back. “She’s hot, clouted outside 9945 South Normandie this afternoon. The owner is one Wardell J. Hascomb, male Negro, 9816 South–”
“I’ve got that.”
“You know, Deputy, your partner was a whole lot nicer.”
“What?”
The operator sounded exasperated, like he was talking to a cretin. “Deputy Jones from your squad. He called in for a repeat on those four names I gave you, said you lost your notes.”
Now the booth went freezing. No such deputy existed; someone–probably HIM–had been watching him stake Gordean’s office, close enough to overhear his conversation with the clerk and glom the gist–that he was requesting vehicle registrations. Danny shivered and said, “Describe his voice.”
“Your partner’s? Too cultured for a County plainclothes dick, I’ll–”
Danny slammed the receiver down, gave the phone his last coin and dialed the direct squadroom line at Hollywood Station. A voice answered, “Hollywood Detectives”; Danny said, “Sergeant Shortell. Tell him it’s urgent.”
“Okay,” a soft click, the old-timer cop yawning, “Yes? Who’s this?”
“Upshaw. Jack, the killer was tailing me in a hot roller.”
“What the–”
“Just listen. I spotted him, and he rabbited and abandoned the car. Write this down: ‘48 Pontiac Super, brown, La Paloma Drive off Sunset in the Palisades, where it flattens out at the hill. Print man to dust it, you to canvass. He took off on foot and it’s all hills there, so I’m pretty sure he’s gone, but do it anyway. And fast–I won’t be there to watchdog.”
“Holy fuck.”
“In spades, and get me this–records checks on these four men–Donald Wachtel, 1638 Franklin, Santa Monica. Timothy Costigan, 11692 Saticoy, Van Nuys. Alan Marks, 209 4th Avenue, Venice, and Augie Duarte, 1890 Vendome, LA. Got it?”
Shortell said, “You’ve got it”; Danny hung up and trawled for HIM. He cruised back to La Paloma and found the car exactly the way he left it; he hung his flashlight out the window and shone it at bungalows, alleyways, back yards and foothills. Squarejohn husbands and wives taking out the trash; dogs, cats and a spooked coyote transfixed by the glare in its eyes. No tall, middleaged man with lovely silver hair calmly making his getaway from a count of Grand Theft Auto. Danny drove back to Sunset and took it slowly out to the beach, scanning both sides of the street; at Pacific Coast Highway, he dug in his memory for Felix Gordean’s address, came up with 16822 PCH and rolled there.