“There’s an approach that I’ve let lie because of jurisdictional problems, and that’s where the mugs come in. I want every known heroin and goofball pusher to see those pictures–hard muscle shakedowns, especially in jigtown. I want you to shake down your snitches for information, call every Vice Squad commander in every division, City and County, and tell them to have their officers check with their snitches for fruit bar scuttlebutt. Who’s tall, gray, middle-aged and has a biting fetish? And I want you to call County and State Parole for dope on violent loony bin parolees. I want Griffith Park, South Central and the area where Goines’ body was dumped thoroughly recanvassed.”
Breuning groaned; Niles spoke for the first time. “You want a lot, Upshaw. You know that?”
Danny leaned over the lectern. “It’s an important case, and you’ll share credit for the collar.”
Niles snorted. “It’s homo horseshit, we’ll never get him, and if we did, so what? Do you care how many queers he cuts? I don’t.”
Danny flinched at “homo” and “queers”; holding a stare on Niles made his eyes flicker, and he realized that he hadn’t used the word “homosexual” in his profile of the killer. “I’m a policeman, so I care. And the job is good for our careers.”
“For your career, sonny. You’ve got some deal with some Jew DA downtown.”
“Niles, shitcan it!”
Danny looked around to see who shouted, felt his throat vibrating and saw that he’d gripped the lectern with blue-white fingers. Niles evil-eyed him; Danny couldn’t match the stare. He thought of the rest of his pitch and delivered it, a trace of a flutter in his voice. “Our last approach is pretty obscure. All three men were slashed by zoot sticks, which Doc Layman says Riot Squad cops used to use. There are no zoot stick homicides on record, and most zoot stick assaults were by Caucasians on Mexicans and not reported. Again, check with your informants on this and make your eliminations against blood type and description.”
Jack Shortell was still scribbling; Mike Breuning was looking up at him strangely, eyes narrowed to slits. Danny turned back to Niles. “Got that, Sergeant?”
Niles had another cigarette going; he was scorching his desk with the tip. “You’re really in tight with the Jews, huh, Upshaw? What’s Mickey Kike paying you?”
“More than Brenda paid you.”
Shortell laughed; Breuning’s strange look broke into a smile. Niles threw his cigarette on the floor and stamped it out. “Why didn’t you report your lead on Marty Goines’ pad, hotshot? What the fuck was happening there?”
Danny’s hands snapped a piece of wood off the lectern. He said, “Dismissed,” with some other man’s voice.
o o o
Considine and Smith were waiting for him in Ellis Loew’s office; big Dudley was hanging up a phone with the words, “Thank you, lad.” Danny sat down at Loew’s conference table, sensing the “lad” was flunky Mike Breuning with a report on his briefing.
Considine was busy writing on a yellow legal pad; Smith came over and gave him the glad hand. “How was your first morning as Homicide brass, lad?”
Danny knew he knew–verbatim. “It went well, Lieutenant.”
“Call me Dudley. You’ll be outranking me in a few years, and you should get used to patronizing men much your senior.”
“Okay, Dudley.”
Smith laughed. “Lad, you’re a heartbreaker. Isn’t he a heartbreaker, Malcolm?”
Considine slid his chair next to Danny. “Let’s hope Claire De Haven thinks so. How are you, Deputy?”
Danny said, “I’m fine, Lieutenant,” picking up something wrong between his superiors–contempt or plain tension working two ways–Dudley Smith in the catbird seat.
“Good. The briefing went well, then?”
“Yes.”
“Have you read that paperwork we gave you?”
“I’ve got it practically memorized.”
Considine tapped his pad. “Excellent. We’ll start now, then.”
Dudley Smith sat at the far end of the table; Danny geared his brain to listen and think before speaking. Considine said, “Here’s some rules for you to follow.
“One, you drive your civilian car everywhere, on your decoy job and your homicide job. We’re building an identity for you, and we’ll have a script ready by late tonight. You’re going to be a lefty who’s been living in New York for years, so we’ve got New York plates for your car, and we’ve got a whole personal background for you to memorize. When you go by your various station houses to check reports or whatever, park on the street at least two blocks away, and when you leave here, go downstairs to the barbershop. Al, Mayor Bowron’s barber, is going to get rid of that crew cut of yours and cut your hair so that you look less like a cop. I need your trouser, shirt, jacket, sweater and shoe sizes, and I want you to meet me at midnight at West Hollywood Station. I’ll have your new Commie wardrobe and script ready, and we’ll finalize your approach. Got it?”