What looked like the entire in-station contingent was crammed into a short corridor inset with interrogation cubicles, every man straining for a look through the one-way glass of the middle room on the left side. Russ Millard’s voice was coming out of a wall-mounted speaker: smooth, coaxing.
I nudged the officer nearest to me. “Has he confessed?”
The man shook his head. “No. Millard and his partner are giving him the Mutt and Jeff.”
“Did he admit knowing the girl?”
“Yeah. We got him from the DMV cross-checks, and he came along peacefully. Wanna make a little bet? Innocent or guilty, take your pick. I’m feelin’ lucky today.”
I ignored the offer, gently elbowed my way up to the glass and peered in. Millard was seated at a battered wooden table, a handsome young guy with a carrot-hued pompadour across from him fingering a pack of cigarettes. He looked scared shitless; Millard looked like the nice-guy priest in the movies– the one who’s seen it all and granted absolution for the whole enchilada.
Carrot top’s voice came over the speaker. “Please, I’ve told it three times now.”
Millard said, “Robert, we’re doing this because you didn’t come forward. Betty Short has been on the front page of every LA newspaper for three days now, and you knew we wanted to talk to you. But you hid out. How do you think that looks?”
Robert ‘Red’ Manley lit a cigarette, inhaled and coughed. “I didn’t want my wife to know I was chipping on her.”
“But you didn’t chip on her. Betty wouldn’t put out. She cock-teased you and didn’t come across. That’s no reason to hide from the police.”
“I dated her down in Dago. I danced slow dances with her. It’s the same thing as chipping.”
Millard put a hand on Manley’s arm. “Let’s go back to the beginning. Tell me how you met Betty, what you did, what you talked about. Take your time, nobody’s rushing you.”
Manley stubbed out his cigarette into an overflowing ashtray, lit another one and wiped sweat from his brow. I looked around the corridor and saw Ellis Loew leaning against the opposite wall, Vogel and Koenig flanking him like twin dogs awaiting the command to attack. A static-filtered sigh came over the loudspeaker; I turned back and watched the suspect squirm in his chair. “And this is the last time I’ll have to tell it?”
Millard smiled. “That’s right. Go ahead, son.” Manley got up and stretched, then paced as he talked. “I met Betty the week before Christmas, at this bar in downtown Dago. We just started gabbing, and Betty let it slip that she was sort of on her uppers, staying with this woman Mrs. French and her daughter, sort of temporarily. I bought her dinner at an Italian joint in Old Town, then we went dancing at the Sky Room at the El Cortez Hotel. We–”
Millard interrupted. “Do you always chase tail when you’re out of town on business?”
Manley shouted, “I wasn’t chasing tail!”
“What were you doing, then?”
“I was infatuated, that’s all. I couldn’t tell if Betty was a gold digger or a nice girl, and I wanted to find out. I wanted to test my loyalty to my wife and I just . . .”
Manley’s voice died down; Millard said, “Son, for God’s sake tell the truth. You were looking for some pussy, right?”
Manley slumped into his chair. “Right.”
“Just like you always do on business trips, right?”
“No! Betty was different!”
“How was she different? Out-of-town stuff is out-of-town stuff, right?”
“No! I don’t chip on my wife when I’m on the road! Betty was just . . .”
Millard’s voice was so low that the loudspeaker barely picked it up. “Betty just set you off. Right?”
“Right.”
“Made you want to do things you’d never done before, made you mad, made you–”
“No! No! I wanted to fuck her, I didn’t want to hurt her!”
“Sssh. Sssh. Let’s go back to Christmastime. You had that first date with Betty. Did you kiss her good night?”
Manley gripped the ashtray with both hands; they shook, butts spilled onto the table. “On the cheek.”