“Meeks, you should have told me anyway.”
“Upshaw, you gave me some barter on the old queen. I owe you on that, ‘cause I had to rough him up, and I bought out by tellin’ him I’d keep the Homicide dicks away. And kid, that poor sucker couldn’t of killed a fly.”
“Shit! Why did you go talk to him in the first place? Because he was connected to the Sleepy Lagoon Committee?”
“No. I was trackin’ corroboration dirt on the Commies and I got a note said Hartshorn was rousted with Reynolds Loftis at a fruit bar in Santa Monica in ‘44. I wanted to see if I could squeeze some more dirt on Loftis out of him.”
Danny put the phone to his chest so Meeks wouldn’t hear him hyperventilating, wouldn’t hear his brain banging around the facts he’d just been handed and the way they might just really play:
Reynolds Loftis was tall, gray-haired, middle-aged.
He was connected to Charles Hartshorn, a suicide, the blackmail victim of Duane Lindenaur, homicide victim number three.
He was the homosexual lover of Chaz Minear circa early ‘40s; in the grand jury psychiatric files, Sammy Benavides had mentioned “puto” Chaz buying sex via a “queer date-a-boy gig”– a possible reference to Felix Gordean’s introduction service, which employed snuff victims George Wiltsie and Augie Duarte.
Last night in darktown, Claire De Haven had been all nerves; the killer had picked up Goines on that block and a hop pusher at the Zombie had addressed her. She sloughed it off, but was known to the grand jury team as a longtime hophead. Did she procure the junk load that killed Marty Goines?
Danny’s hands twitched the receiver off his chest; he heard Meeks on the other end of the line–”Kid, you there? You there, kid?”–and managed to hook the mouthpiece into his chin. “Yeah, I’m here.”
“There something you ain’t tellin’ me?”
“Yes–no–fuck, I don’t know.”
The line hung silent for good long seconds; Danny stared at his wolverine pinups; Meeks said, “Deputy, are you tellin’ me Loftis is a suspect for your killin’s?”
Danny said, “I’m telling you maybe. Maybe real strong. He fits the killer’s description, and he… fits.”
Buzz Meeks said, “Holy fuckin’ dog.”
Danny hung up, thinking he’d kissed Reynolds Loftis in his mind–and he liked it.
o o o
Krugman into Upshaw into Krugman, pure Homicide cop.
Danny drove to Beverly Hills, no rear-view trawling. He Man Camera’d Reynolds Loftis wolverine slashing; the combination of 2307 pictures, Augie Duarte’s body and Loftis’ handsome face rooting in gore had him riding the clutch, shifting when he didn’t need to just to keep the images a little bit at bay. Pulling up, he saw the house lights on bright–cheery, like the people inside had nothing to hide; he walked up to the door and found a note under the knocker: “Ted. Back in a few minutes. Make yourself at home–C.”
More nothing to hide. Danny opened the door, moved inside and saw a writing table wedged against a wall by the stairwell. A floor lamp was casting light on it; papers were strewn across the blotter, a leather-bound portfolio weighing them down, nothing to hide blinking neon. He walked over, picked it up and opened it; the top page bore clean typescript: “MINUTES AND ATTENDANCE, UAES EXECUTIVE COMMITTEE, 1950 MEETINGS.”
Danny opened to the first page. More perfect typescript: the meeting/New Year’s party on 12/31/49. Present–scrawled signatures–were C. De Haven, M. Ziffkin, R. Loftis, S. Benavides, M. Lopez, and one name crossed out, illegible. Topics of discussion were “Picket Assignments,” “Secretary’s Report,” “Treasurer’s Report” and whether or not to hire private detectives to look into the criminal records of Teamster picketers. The soiree commenced at 11:00 P.M. and ended at 6:00 A.M.; Danny winced at the gist: the ledger could be construed as an alibi for Reynolds Loftis–he was here during the time Marty Goines was snatched and killed–and the minutes contained nothing at all subversive.
Too much nothing to hide.
Danny flipped forward, finding a meeting on 1/4/50, the same people in attendance during the time frame of the Wiltsie/Lindenaur killings, the same strange crossout, the same boring topics discussed. And Loftis was with Claire last night when Augie Duarte probably got it–he’d have to check with Doc Layman on the estimated time of death. Perfect group alibis, no treason on the side, Loftis not HIM, unless the whole brain trust was behind the killings–which was ridiculous.