It was a ride to the Station then. Karen Hiltscher was just swinging back on duty; he brought candy and flowers to chill down her curiosity over Tamarind and any poutiness for the largest deluge of shitwork he’d ever tossed her way: all individual station and Sheriff’s Bureau files checked for men with dental lab work histories, plus eliminations against blood type and physical description; calls started to his list of dental labs for breakdowns of male workers with the same physical stats. The girl took the goodies while a group of muster room loungers guffawed; she seemed hurt and miffed, didn’t mention 2307 and agreed in a Bette Davis bitch pout to make the queries in her “spare time.” He didn’t press; she knew she had gained the upper hand on him.
Danny finished up his file work, thinking of Tamarind Street as virgin canvassing territory, wondering if the burglary partner Leo Bordoni mentioned applied to the case, if he was or wasn’t connected to the burn-faced boy from Marty Goines’ past. His paperwork now totaled fifty-odd pages; he’d spent fifteen of the past twenty-four hours writing. He’d resisted the impulse to scour around Tamarind, wait, look, talk up the locals, jump the gun on LAPD. If Niles had gotten a lead on the place, Doc Layman would have called him; most likely the street was just existing, business as usual, while its residents forgot minor occurrences that might crack his case. Phone the Lexington Hospital lead to Dietrich, making like he just got the call at home, then brief Karen on the lie? Or do it after, no risk on the skipper handing the job to his LAPD pal, the interagency gig he asked for?
No contest. Danny drove to Hollywood, to Tamarind Street. The block was business as usual, warmer than two days ago, foot traffic on the sidewalk, people sitting on front porches, mowing lawns and trimming shrubs. Danny parked and canvassed, straight zero into mid-afternoon: no strange occurrences in the neighborhood, no strange vehicles, no info on Marty Goines, nothing unusual going on at 2307 Tamarind, garage apartment rear. No loiterers, no strange noises, zero–and nobody mentioned his tan Chevy parked streetside. He was starting to feel cocky about his maneuvering when an old lady walking a miniature schnauzer responded to his lead question with a yes.
Three nights ago, around 10:00, she’d been strolling Wursti and saw a tall man with beautiful silver hair walking back toward the garage at 2307, a “weaving drunk” on either side of him. No, she had not seen any of the three men before; no, no strange noises from the garage apartment followed; no, she didn’t know the woman who owned the front house; no, the men did not talk to each other, and she doubted she would be able to ID the silver-haired man if she saw him again.
Danny let the woman go, went back to his car, hunkered down to keep a fix on 2307. Instincts hit him hard:
Yes, the killer staked out the pad to see if cops showed up. Yes, he had the Griffith Park dump site already planned. Goines’ name never made the papers, he was simply a vagrant, the killer knew his murder spot wasn’t compromised by Goines’ publicity. The only known Goines associates who knew of Mad Marty’s demise were the jazzmen he had questioned, which eliminated jazzbos as suspects–with Goines ID’d by the law, no smart killer would bring future victims to the man’s apartment. Which meant that if no heat appeared in force on Tamarind Street, the killer might bring other victims here. Hold the lead safe from LAPD, stay staked out, pray the killer didn’t witness his or Bordoni’s break-in and today’s canvassing, sit tight and he just might waltz right into your life with number four on his arm.
Danny held, eyes on the house, rear-view adjusted to frame the driveway. Time stretched; a wrong-looking man strolled by, then two old ladies pushing shopping carts and a gaggle of boys wearing Hollywood High letter jackets. A siren whirred, getting closer; Danny thought of code three trouble down on the Boulevard.
Then everything went very fast.
An old lady opened the 2307 front house door; an unmarked prowler jammed into the driveway. Sergeant Gene Niles got out, looked across the street and saw him–a sitting duck in the car he’d had at Griffith Park yesterday morning. Niles started to head over; the old woman intercepted him, pointing toward the garage apartment. Niles stopped; the woman grabbed at his coat sleeves; Danny flailed for lies. Niles let himself be led down the driveway. Danny got bad heebie-jeebies–and drove to the Station to lay some cover.