“There’s the grand jury, Meeks.”
“A Commie like Loftis popped for four 187’s makes you so large that no judge in this state would fuck you over on your custody case. Think of that.”
Mal broke his pencil in two. “I need a continuance, now, and I won’t frame Loftis.”
“That mean you’re in?”
“I don’t know.”
Buzz went for the kill. “Well, shit there, Captain. I thought appealin’ to your career would get you, but I guess I was wrong. Just think about Danny Upshaw and how bad he wanted it, and how you got your rocks off sendin’ him after Claire De Haven. Think how maybe her and Loftis played with that cherry kid right before he cut his fuckin’ throat. Then you–”
Mal slapped Buzz hard in the face.
Buzz sat on his hands so he wouldn’t hit back.
Mal threw his list of names on the grass and said, “I’m in. But if this fucks up my grand jury shot, it’s you and me for real. For keeps.”
Buzz smiled. “Yessir, Captain.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Claire De Haven said, “I take it this means all pretenses are off.”
A weak intro–he knew she had Upshaw made and the grand jury on track. Mal said, “This is about four murders.”
“Oh?”
“Where’s Reynolds Loftis? I want to talk to him.”
“Reynolds is out, and I told you before that he and I will not name names.”
Mal walked into the house. He saw the front page of last Wednesday’s Herald on a chair; he knew Claire had seen the piece on Danny’s death, Sheriff’s Academy picture included. She closed the door–her no pretense–she wanted to know what he had. Mal said, “Four killings. No political stuff unless you tell me otherwise.”
Claire said, “I’ll tell you I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Mal pointed to the paper. “What’s so interesting about last week’s news?”
“A sad little obituary on a young man I knew.”
Mal played in. “What kind of young man?”
“I think frightened, impotent and treacherous describes him best.”
The epitaph stung; Mal wondered for the ten millionth time what Danny Upshaw and Claire De Haven did to each other. “Four men raped and cut up. No political stuff for you to get noble about. Do you want to get down off your high Commie horse and tell me what you know about it? What Reynolds Loftis knows?”
Claire walked up to him, perfume right in his face. “You sent that boy to fuck information out of me and now you want to preach decency?”
Mal grabbed her shoulders and squeezed them; he got his night’s worth of report study straight in his head. “January 1, Marty Goines snatched from South Central, shot with heroin, mutilated and killed. January 4, George Wiltsie and Duane Lindenaur, secobarbital sedated, mutilated and killed. January 14, Augie Luis Duarte, the same thing. Wiltsie and Duarte were male whores, we know that certain men in your union frequent male whores and the killer’s description is a dead ringer for Loftis. Still want to play cute?”
Claire squirmed; Mal saw her as something wrong to touch and let go. She wheeled to a desk by the stairwell, grabbed a ledger and shoved it at him. “On January first, fourth, and fourteenth, Reynolds was here in full view of myself and others. You’re insane to think he could kill anybody, and this proves it.”
Mal took the ledger, skimmed it and shoved it back to her. “It’s a fake. I don’t know what the crossouts mean, but only your signature and Loftis’ are real. The others are traced over, and the minutes are like Dick and Jane join the Party. It’s a fake, and you had it out and ready. Now you explain that, or I go get a material witness warrant for Loftis.”
Claire held the ledger to herself. “I don’t believe that threat. I think this is some kind of personal vendetta with you.”
“Just answer me.”
“My answer is that your young Deputy Ted kept pressing me about what Reynolds was doing on those nights, and when I discovered that he was a policeman I thought he must have convinced himself that Reynolds did something terrible. Reynolds was here then for meetings, so I left this out for the boy to see, so he wouldn’t launch some awful circumstantial pogrom.”