I finished shortly after dark, and drove to the house to grab dinner.
Pulling up, I saw Kay storming out the door and down the steps, hurling an armful of paper onto the lawn, then storming back while Lee stormed beside her, shouting and waving his arms. I walked over and knelt beside the discarded pile; the papers were carbons of LAPD report forms. Sifting through them, I saw FIs, evidence indexes, questioning reports, tip lists and a complete autopsy protocol–all with “E. Short, W.F. D.O.D. 1/15/47” typed at the top. They were obviously bootlegged from University Station–and the very possession of them was enough to guarantee Lee a suspension from duty.
Kay came back with another load, shouting, “After all that’s happened, all that might happen, how can you do this? It’s sick and it’s insane!” She dumped the papers beside the other pile; 39th and Norton glossies glinted up at me. Lee grabbed her by the arms and held her while she squirmed. “Goddamnit, you know what this is to me. You _know_. Now I’ll rent a room to keep the stuff in, but babe, you stick by me on this. It’s _mine_, and I need you . . . and you _know_.”
They noticed me then. Lee said, “Bucky, you tell her. You reason with her.”
It was the funniest Dahlia circus line I’d heard so far. “Kay’s right. You’ve pulled at least three misdemeanors on this thing, and it’s getting out–” I stopped, thinking of what _I’d_ pulled, and where I was going at midnight. Looking at Kay, I shifted gears. “I promised him a week on it. That means four more days. On Wednesday it’s over.”
Kay sighed, “Dwight, you can be so gutless sometimes,” then walked into the house. Lee opened his mouth to say something funny. I kicked a path through official LAPD paper to my car.
o o o
The snow-white Packard was in the same spot as last night. I staked it out from my car, parked directly in back of it. Huddled low in the front seat, I spent angry hours watching foot traffic enter and leave the three bars on the block– daggers, femmes and obvious sheriff’s dicks with that edgy look indigenous to bagmen. Midnight came and went; the foot traffic picked up-mostly lezzies headed for the hot sheet motels across the street. Then she walked out the door of La Verne’s Hideaway alone, a showstopper in a green silk dress.
I slid out the passenger side door just as she stepped off the curb, giving me a sidelong glance. “Slumming, Miss Sprague?”
Madeleine Sprague stopped; I closed the distance between us. She dug in her purse, pulling out car keys and a fat wad of cash. “So Daddy’s spying again. He’s on one of his little Calvinist crusades, and he said you shouldn’t be subtle.” She switched to a deft imitation of a Scotchman’s burr: “Maddy girl, ye should not be congregating in such unsuitable places. It would not do to have ye seen by the wrong people there, lassie.”
My legs were trembling, like they did while I waited for the first-round bell. I said, “I’m a police officer.”
Madeleine Sprague went back to her normal voice. “Oh? Daddy’s buying policemen now?”
“He didn’t buy me.”
She held out the cash and looked me over. “No, probably not. You’d be dressing better if you worked for him. So let’s try the West Valley Sheriffs. You’re already extorting La Verne, so you thought you’d try extorting her patrons.”
I took the money, counted over a hundred dollars, then handed it back. “Let’s try LAPD Homicide. Let’s try Elizabeth Short and Linda Martin.”
Madeleine Sprague’s brassy act died fast. Her face scrunched up with worry, and I saw that her resemblance to Betty/Beth was more hairdo and makeup than anything else; on the whole her features were less refined than the Dahlia’s, and only superficially similar. I studied that face: panicky hazel eyes caught by streetlight glow; forehead creased, like her brain was working overtime. Her hands were shaking, so I grabbed the car keys and money, stuffed them into her purse and tossed it on the hood of the Packard. Knowing I might have a major lead by the short hairs, I said, “You can talk to me here or downtown, Miss Sprague. Just don’t lie. I know you knew her, so if you jerk me off on that it’s the station and a lot of publicity you don’t want.”