Danny bolted his drink–thirty-dollar private stock guzzled. The brandy burned going down; the fire put a rasp on his voice. “I’ve got the LAPD with me on this case, and the DA’s Bureau. They might not like you hiding behind a crooked Vice cop.”
Gordean smiled–very slightly. “I won’t tell Lieutenant Matthews you said that, nor will I tell Al Dietrich the next time I send him and Sheriff Biscailuz passes to play golf at my club. And I have good friends with both the LAPD and the Bureau. Another drink, Mr. Upshaw?”
Danny counted to himself–one, two, three, four–the kibosh on a hothead play. Gordean took his glass, moved to the bar, poured a refill and came back wearing a new smile–older brother looking to put younger brother at ease. “You know the game, Deputy. For God’s sake quit coming on like an indignant boy scout.”
Danny ignored the brandy and sighted in on Gordean’s eyes for signs of fear. “White, forty-five to fifty, slender. Over six feet tall, with an impressive head of silver hair.”
No fear; a thoughtful scrunching up of the forehead. Gordean said, “I recall a tall, dark-haired man from the Mexican Consulate going with George, but he was fiftyish during the war. I remember several rather rotund men finding George attractive, and I know that he went regularly with a very tall man with red hair. Does that help you?”
“No. What about men in general of that description? Are there any who frequent your parties or regularly use your service?”
Another thoughtful look. Gordean said, “It’s the impressive head of hair that tears it. The only tall, middle-aged men I deal with are quite balding. I’m sorry.”
Danny thought, no you’re not–but you’re probably telling the truth. He said, “What did Wiltsie tell you about Lindenaur?”
“Just that they were living together.”
“Did you know that Lindenaur attempted to extort money from Charles Hartshorn?”
“No.”
“Have you heard of either Wiltsie or Lindenaur pulling other extortion deals?”
“No, I have not.”
“What about blackmail in general? Men like your clients are certainly susceptible to it.”
Felix Gordean laughed. “My clients come to my parties and use my service because I insulate them from things like that.”
Danny laughed. “You didn’t insulate Charles Hartshorn too well.”
“Charles was never lucky–in love or politics. He’s also not a killer. Question him if you don’t believe me, but be courteous, Charles has a low threshold for abuse and he has much legal power.”
Gordean was holding out the glass of brandy; Danny took it and knocked the full measure back. “What about enemies of Wiltsie and Lindenaur, known associates, guys they ran with?”
“I don’t know anything about that sort of thing.”
“Why not?”
“I try to keep things separate and circumscribed.”
“Why?”
“To avoid situations like this.”
Danny felt the brandy coming on, kicking in with the shots he’d had at home. “Mr. Gordean, are you a homosexual?”
“No, Deputy. Are you?”
Danny flushed, raised his glass and found it empty. He resurrected a crack from his briefing with Considine. “That old scarlet letter routine doesn’t wash with me.”
Gordean said, “I don’t quite understand the reference, Deputy.”
“It means that I’m a professional, and I can’t be shocked.”
“Then you shouldn’t blush so easily–your color betrays you as a naif.”
The empty glass felt like a missile to heave; Danny hit back on “naif” instead. “We’re talking about three people dead. Cut up with a fucking zoot stick, eyes poked out, intestines chewed on. We’re talking about blackmail and burglary and jazz and guys with burned-up faces, and you think you can hurt me by calling me naif? You think you–”
Danny stopped when he saw Gordean’s jaw tensing. The man stared down at the floor; Danny wondered if he’d stabbed a nerve or just hit him on simple revulsion. “What is it? Tell me.”
Gordean looked up. “I’m sorry. I have a low threshold for brash young policemen and descriptions of violence, and I shouldn’t have called–”
“Then help me. Show me your client list.”
“No. I told you I don’t keep a list.”
“Then tell me what bothered you so much.”
“I did tell you.”