L.A. Confidential (41 page)

  Bingo--a pudgy hardcase type, a real Duke Cathcart lookalike. Dean NMI Van Gelder, W.M., DOB 3/4/21. 5'8¾", 178 lbs., blue eyes, brown hair. One armed-robbery bounce--6/42-- ten to twenty, released from Folsom 6/52, full minimum sentence topped--no parole. No further arrests--chalk it up to Bud White's theory--Van Gelder got it at the Nite Owl.

  Hilda said, "That's it--_Dean_. Susan Nancy called him 'Dean,' but he said, 'No, get used to calling me "Duke.""'

  Jack said, "You sure?"

  "Yes, I'm sure. Six hours of looking at these awful pictures and you ask me if I'm sure? If I wanted to lie I would have pointed somebody out hours ago. _Please_, Officer. First you fmd a body under my house, next you subject me to these pictures. Now will you please take me home?"

  Jack shook his head no. Work it: Who? to Van Gelder to Cathcart to the Nite Owl. One parlay made sense--the Englekling brothers to Cathcart to a brush with Mickey Cohen--in stir back in '53. He picked up the phone, dialed 0.

  "Operator."

  "Operator, this is a police emergency. I need to be put through to somebody in administration at McNeil Federal Penitentiary, Puget Sound, Washington."

  "I see. And your name?"

  "Sergeant Vincennes, Los Angeles Police Department. Tell them I'm on a homicide investigation."

  "I see. Circuits to Wasington State have been--"

  "Shit. I'm at MAdison 60042. Will you--"

  "I'll try your call now, sir."

  Jack hung up. Forty seconds by the wall clock--_bbring brinng_.

  "Vincennes."

  "Deputy Warden Cahill at McNeil. This pertains to a homicide?"

  Hilda Lefferts was pouting--Jack turned away from her. "Yeah, and all I need's one answer. Got a pencil?"

  "Of course."

  "Okay. I need to know if a white male named Dean Van Gelder, that's two separate words on the last name, visited an inmate at McNeil say from February through April 1953. All I need's a yes or no and the names of any inmates he visited."

  A sigh. "All right, please hold. This may take a while."

  Jack held counting minutes--Cahill came back on at twelve plus. "That's a positive. Dean Van Gelder, DOB 3/4/2 1, visited inmate David Goldman on three occasions: 3/27/53, 4/1/53 and 4/3/53. Goldman was at McNeil on tax charges. Perhaps you've heard--"

  Work in Davey G.--Mickey Cohen's man. Work in Van Gelder's last visit--two weeks before the Nite Owl, the same time the Englekling brothers lubed Mickey--the meet where they spilled the smut plan. The prison man kept babbling--Jack hung up on him. The Nite Owl case started to shake.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  Ed drove Lynn Bracken home, a last shot before having her arrested. She protested, then went along: her day of truth dope, counterdope and browbeating showed--she looked frazzled, exhausted. Call her smart, strong and chemically fortified; she gave up nothing but Pierce Patchett crumbs--however she managed it. Patchett knew a whitewash wouldn't wash; Lynn funneled out her call girl tale--and Patchett had to have lawyers waiting in case that crumb went to indictments. Reopening day one was pure insane: Dudley Smith up in Gaitsville while his hot dogs shook down Darktown; Vincennes' body under the house and his ID on Dean Van Gelder--Davey Goldman's McNeil visitor pre--Nite Owl. Bud White for a runner, then his _Whisper_ leak breaking--he was a fool to trust him for a second. All of that he could take: he was a professional detective used to dealing with chaos.

  But the Atherton case and his father circuiting in was something else. Now he felt suspended, one simple instinct running him: the Nite Owl had a life past any detective's volition--and the will to make its horror known whether he was there to probe evidence or not, whether he was capable of forming plans or just hanging on for the ride.

  He had a plan to work Bracken and Patchett.

  Lynn blew smoke rings out the window. "Down two blocks and turn left. You can stop there, I'm right near the corner."

  Ed braked short. "One last question. At the Bureau you implied that you knew Patchett and Sid Hudgens were planning to work an extortion racket."

  "I don't recall endorsing that statement."

  "You didn't dispute it."

  "I was tired and bored."

  "You endorsed it, implicitly. And it's in Jack Vincennes' deposition."

  "Then perhaps Vincennes lied about that part. He used to be quite a celebrity. Wouldn't you also call him quite a selfdramatist?"

  An opening. "Yes."

  "And do you think you can trust him?"

  Fake chagrin oozing. "I don't know. He's my weak point."

  "So there you are. Mr. Exley, are you going to arrest me?"

  "I'm beginning to think it wouldn't do any good. What did White say when he told you to come in for questioning?"

  "Just to come clean. Did you show him Vincennes' deposition?"

  The truth--make her grateful. "No."

  "I'm glad, because I'm sure it's full of lies. Why didn't you show it to him?"

  "Because he's a limited detective, and the less he knows the better. He's also a protégé of a rival officer on the case, and I didn't want him passing information to him."

  "Are you speaking of Dudley Smith?"

  "Yes. Do you know him?"

  "No, but Bud speaks of him often. I think he's afraid of him, which means that Smith must be quite a man."

  "Dudley's brilliant and vicious to the core, but I'm better. And look, it's late."

  "Can I give you a drink?"

  "Why? You spat in my face today."

  "Well, given the circumstances."

  Her smile made his smile easy. "Given the circumstances, one drink."

  Lynn got out of the car. Ed watched her move: high heels, a shit day--but her feet hardly touched the ground. She led him to her building, unlocked the bottom door and hit a light.

  Ed walked in. Exquisite--the fabrics, the art. Lynn kicked off her shoes and poured brandies; Ed sat on a sofa--pure velvet.

  Lynn joined him. Ed took his drink, sipped. Lynn warmed the glass with her hands. "Do you know why I invited you in?"

  "You're too inteffigent to try to wrangle a deal, so I'll guess you're just curious about me."

  "Bud hates you more than he loves me or anyone else. I'm beginning to see why."

  "I don't really want your opinion."

  "I was leading up to a compliment."

  "Some other time, all right?"

  "I'll change the subject then. How's Inez Soto handling the publicity? She's been all over the papers."

  "She's taking it poorly, and I don't want to talk about her."

  "It galls you that I know so much about you. You don't have information to compete."

  Move the wedge. "I have Vincennes' deposition."

  "Which I suspect you doubt the truth of."

  Throw the change-up. "You mentioned that Patchett financed some early Raymond Dieterling films. Can you elaborate on that?"

  "'Why? Because your father is associated with Dieterling? You see the disadvantages of being the son of a famous man?"

  No hink, a deft touch with the knife. "Just a policeman's question."

  Lynn shrugged. "Pierce mentioned it to me in passing several years ago."

  The phone rang--Lynn ignored it. "I can tell you don't want to talk about Jack Vincennes."

  "I can tell you do."

  "I haven't seen much in the news about him lately."

  "That's because he flushed everything he had down the toilet. _Badge of Honor_, his friendship with Miller Stanton, all of it. Sid Hudgens getting murdered didn't help, since _Hush-Hush_ owed half its filth to Vincennes' shakedowns."

  Lynn sipped brandy. "You don't like Jack."

  "No, but there's part of his deposition that I believe absolutely. Patchett has carbons of Sid Hudgens' private dirt files, including a carbon of a file on Vincennes himself. You can do yourself some good by acknowledging it."

  If she bit she'd start now.

  "I can't acknowledge it, and the next time we speak I'll have a lawyer. But I can tell you that I think I know what such a file would contain."

  First wedge in place. "And?"

  "Well, I think the year was 1947. Vincennes got involved in a gunfight at the beach. He was under the influence of narcotics and shot and killed two innocent people, a husband and wife. My source has verification, including the testimony of an ambulance deputy and a notarized statement from the doctor who treated Jack for his wounds. My source has blood test results that show the drugs in his system and testimony from eyewitnesses who didn't come forth. Is that information you'd suppress to protect a brother officer, Captain?"

  The Malibu Rendezvous: Trashcan's glory job. The phone rang--Lynn let it go. Ed said, "Jesus Christ," no need to fake.

  "Yes. You know, when I read about Vincennes I always thought he had some very dark reasons for persecuting dope users, so I wasn't surprised when I found that out. And, Captain? If Pierce did have file carbons, I'm sure he would have destroyed them."

  Her last bit rang fake--Ed played a lie off it. "I know Jack loves dope, it's been a rumor around the Bureau for years. And I know you're lying about the files and I know Vincennes would do anything to get his file back. You and Patchett shouldn't underestimate him."

  "The way you've underestimated Bud White?"

  Her smile came on like a target--he thought for a second that he'd hit her. She laughed before he could; he leaned in and kissed her instead. Lynn pulled back, then kissed back; they rolled to the floor shedding clothes. The phone rang--Ed kicked it off the hook. Lynn pulled him inside her; they rolled, moved together, trashed furniture. It ended as fast as it started--he could feel Lynn reaching to peak. Seconds apart for that, good enough, rest. His story laid out between sighs, like it was a burden too heavy to carry.

  Rogue cop Jack Vincennes, on dope and too hot to handle. He'd do anything to get his file back, he had to get that file. Captain E. J. Exley had to use him for what he knew--but Vincennes was doped up, boozed up, going psycho on him--

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  Bud hit L.A. at dawn, off the midnight bus down from Frisco. His city looked strange, new--like everything else in his life.

  He got a taxi and dozed; he kept snapping awake to Ellis Loew: "It sounds like a great case, but multiple homicides are tricky and Spade Cooley is a well-known figure. I'll put a D.A.'s Bureau team on it and _you stay out of it for now_." Cut to Lynn: calls, the phone off the hook, smothered. Strange, but like her--when she wanted to sleep she wanted to sleep.

  He couldn't believe his life, it was just too goddamn amazing.

  The cab dropped him off. He found a note on his door-- "Sergeant Duane W. Fisk" on the letterhead.

Sgt. White--

  Captain Exley wants to see you immediately (something pertaining to _Whisper_ magazine and a body under a house). Report to l.A. immediately upon your return to Los Angeles.

  Bud laughed, packed a bag: clothes, his paper stash--the hooker killings, the Nite Owl--Dudley's for the asking. He threw the note in the toilet, pissed on it.

o        o          o

  He drove to Gardena, checked into the Victory: a room with clean sheets, a hot plate, no bloodstains on the walls. Fuck sleep-he fixed coffee, worked.

  Everything he knew on Spade Cooley--half a longhand page.

  Cooley was an Okie fiddler/singer, a skinny guy, maybe late forties. He had a couple of hit records, his TV show was big for a while. His bass player, Burt Arthur Perkins, a.k.a. "Deuce," did time on a chain gang for sodomy on dogs and was rumored to have a shitload of mob K.A.'s.

  On the investigation:

  Lamar Hinton said Spade smoked opium; Spade played the Lariat Room in Frisco--across from Chrissie Renfro's place of death. Chrissie died with "0" in her system; Spade was currently playing the El Rancho Kiub in L.A., close by Lynette Ellen Kendrick's apartment. Lamar Hinton said Dwight Gilette--Kathy Janeway's old pimp-supplied whores for Cooley's parties.

  Circumstantial--but tight.

  A phone wired to the wall--Bud grabbed it, called the County Coroner's Office.

  "Medical Examinations, Jensen."

  "Sergeant White for Dr. Harris. I know he's busy, but tell him it's just one thing."

  "Hold, please," click, click, click. "Sergeant, what is it this time?"

  "One thing off your autopsy report."

  "You're not even a county officer."

  "Stomach and bloodstream contents on Lynette Kendrick. Come on, huh?"

  "That's easy, because Kendrick won our best stomach award last week. Are you ready? Frankfurters with sauerkraut, french fries, Coca-Cola, opium, sperm. Jesus, what a last supper."

  Bud hung up. Ellis Loew said stay out of it. Kathy Janeway said GO.

o        o          o

  He drove to the Strip, put the M.O. together.

  First the El Rancho Klub, closed, "Spade Cooley and His Cowboy Rhythm Band Appearing Nitely." A publicity still by the door: Spade, Deuce Perkins, three other cracker types. No heavily ringed fingers; a lead rubber-stamped at the bottom: "Represented by Nat Penzler Associates, 653 North La Cienega, Los Angeles."

  Across the street: the Hot Dog Hut, kraut dogs and fries on the menu. Down the Strip by Crescent Heights: a well-known prostie stroll. A mile south at Melrose and Sweetzer: Lynette Ellen Kendrick's apartment.

  Easy:

  Spade picked her up late, no witnesses. He had the food and the dope, suggested a cozy all-nighter, took Lynette home. They got high, chowed down--Spade beat her to death, raped her three times postmortem.

  Bud hooked south to La Cienega. 653: a redwood A-frame, "Nat Penzler Assoc." by the mailbox. The door propped open; a girl inside making coffee.

  Bud walked in. The girl said, "Yes, can I help you?"

  "The boss around?"

  "Mr. Penzler's on the telephone. Can I help you?"

  One connecting door--"N.P." brass-stamped. Bud pushed it open; an old man yelled, "Hey! I'm on a call! What are you, a bill collector? Hey, Gail! Give this clown a magazine!"

  Bud flashed his badge. The man hung up the phone, pushed back from his desk. Bud said, "You're Nat Penzler?"