I handed it over. "Henstell, look at this."

He twirled the gun and snapped quick draws--bad deja vu.

"Pearl grips--this Stemmons guy must have had a cowboy fetish. And look, no numbers on the barrel plate."

I pulled the drawers out. "Do you want to look through these for narcotics?"

"No, but Noonan wants it all when you're finished. He said I should pat-search you afterwards, but that's not my style."

"Thanks."

"You're going to love Federal custody. Noonan pops for steak lunch every day."

Fake grunts: "You want to give me a hand with this?"

"Come on, they can't be _that_ heavy."

Good fake out--I moved on it--over to a catty-corner cubicle. One table, one chair, no inside lock--I jammed the chair under the doork.n.o.b.

Dump the drawers, check the contents: Folders, photos, odd papers--I stacked them on the table.

Four keys on a fob--"Brownell's Locksmiths, 4024 Wabash Aye, East Los Angeles."

Loose newspaper clippings--I smoothed out the crumples.

Go--skim it all: Typed depositions--Glenda Bledsoe/Dwight Gilette--Murder One. My evidence suppression--detailed in longhand.

Georgie Ainge's statement: a typed original and five carbons.

Photo blow-ups: Glenda's juvie print strip and the gun prints. A fingerprint a.n.a.lysis report; photo glossies with comparison points checked.

Witness Disposition Report: "Mr. Ainge is currently living under an a.s.sumed name at an undisclosed location in the San Francisco area. I have telephone access to him and have given him money so that he might hide out and escape potential reprisals from Lieutenant David D. Klein. He remains available to me should he be called as a witness in the matter of the County of Los Angeles vs. Glenda Louise Bledsoe."

My bulls.h.i.t detector clicked in--Ainge bugged out on his own--I'd bet money.

Handwritten pages--doodles, scrawls--half-legible hieroglyphics: (Unreadable)/"I've got a trail worked out on paper"/(unreadable)/ "He's spent a fortune so far"/(unreadable)/ink smears. "So he's spent a fortune operating Officer John Duhamel"--smears--"But of course he's a rich kid policeman whose father died (April 1958) and left him millions."

Scribbles/p.e.n.i.s drawings-doped-up h.o.m.o Junior. "Rich kid" Exley-- easy make--working Johnny D.--no huge surprise. Doodles/gun drawings/indecipherable gobbledygook. "Operating this guy whose story you won't believe." Coffee stains/smears/c.o.c.k drawings/"See file marked Evidence #1."

Check the stack--there--a folder: Newspaper clippings: mid-April '58. Human-interest schmaltz: Johnny Duhamel turns pro-his "wealthy" parents died penniless and USC dunned their estate. Johnny: attending grad school, three jobs--no pro fight career plans. USC cracks down: repay your college debt or drop out.

That piece--the L.A. _Times_, 4/18/58. Three recaps--the _Herald_/_Examiner_/_Mirror_--4/24, 5/2, 5/3.

Weird: Four L.A. dailies/four stories--no new facts exposited, no new angles probed. Gallaudet's file check confirmed: Duhamel's parents died broke.

More "Evidence #1": num6ered doc.u.ment photos. I flashed back to Junior's pad--that Minox camera.

Photos 1, 2, 3: Security First National Bank forms. Checking and savings accounts opened: Walton White, 2750 N. Edgemont, Los Angeles. Two thirty-grand deposits coming off hinky: Edgemont stopped at 2400.

Notations on the back: #1--"Manager described 'Walton White' as 'familiar somehow,' 6'2", 170, blond-gray hair, gla.s.ses, late thirties."

#2--"Manager shown magazine photograph of Edmund Exley. Confirms that E.E. opened the 'Walton White' accounts."

#3--"Manager stated that 'Walton White' (E.E.) requested blank bank checks immediately so that he could begin fulfilling transactions."

Hot now--I started sweating.

Photos 4, 5, 6--cancelled "Walton White" checks. Four grand, four grand, five grand--4/23, 4/27, 4/30/58.

Made out to: Fritzie Huntz, Paul Smitson, Frank Brigantino.

Bingo: the bylines on those copycat articles.

Photo #7--a cancelled check. Eleven grand and change paid out to: the USC Alumni Debt Fund.

"So he's spent a fortune operating Officer John Duhamel."

"Operating this guy whose story you won't believe."

Reporters bribed.

Johnny bought.

Junior glomming bank records--intimidation prowess and charm preCRAAAZY.

Sweating--dripping on my file swag: Duhamel fight clippings.

A deposition--Chuck "the Greek" Chamales--matchmaker, Olympic Auditorium.

"Revealed under the threat to expose his liaison with Lurleen Ruth Cressmeyer, age 14": Johnny D. tanked his one pro fight.

Ed Exley paid him to do it.

Duhamel told Chamales this--"one night when he was drunk." The Greek to Junior, verbatim: "He didn't get specific. He just told me on the QT that that Exley guy had special work for him."

Odd pages left--gibberish/doodling. One sheet block-printed:

ADDENDUM:

As former Academy evidence instructor I was invited to the October 16th retirement party for Sgt. Dennis Payne. Talked about my recent sergeantcy and transfer to Ad Vice with Capt. Didion, who told me my father had old Dep. Chief Green move Dave Klein up to the Ad Vice command as only a Lieutenant partially to grease things for my ultimately taking a spot there. Capt. Didion told Dave "The Enforcer" stories for half an hour, and I only listened because I wanted to tap the grapevine for information on Johnny. Capt Didion told me that Exley personally requested that Johnny graduate early (the 7/10/58 cycle) in order to fill a potential Wilshire Patrol vacancy, which made no sense to him. Also, Dennis Payne confirmed what I suspected when Johnny was yanked early from my evidence cla.s.s: that Exley urged those undercover a.s.signments on him personally, asking Capt. Didion that he be a.s.signed to them while still technically a cadet.

Exley and Duhamel--operating partners--operating WHO?

Suspects: The Kafesjians.

Narco.

"This guy whose story you won't believe."

"This guy"--singular A semantic f.u.c.k-up----maybe, maybe not.

Single-o suspects: Tommy K.

J.C.

Dan Wilhite.

Skewed--I couldn't link them directly to Johnny.

Crack the door--Henstell on the walkway, pacing. Shove the chair back, jam the k.n.o.b shut, go-- I lit a match and torched a file page: f.a.ggot artwork sizzled. More matches, more pages--a contained blaze right there on the table.

Smoke out the floor crack-- Henstell banged on the door. "Klein, G.o.dd.a.m.n it, what the h.e.l.l are you doing!"

Flames, charred paper, smoke. I kicked the table over, stomped the blaze out.

"Klein, G.o.dd.a.m.n it!"

Jerk the door open, shove him back, coughing smoke-- "Tell Noonan it was personal. Tell him I'm still his witness, and now I owe _him_ one."

Out to East L.A., light-headed--light smoke inhalation. Custody fortyseven hours off--two days to GET it: "LONG HISTORY OF INSANITY BOTH OUR FAMILIES."

Olympic east--rain clouds dousing smog. Chasing/chased/partnered up/partner f.u.c.ked: Richie's Chino file was still missing--warden's aides were tossing storage bins for it. Sid Riegle was out chasing Richie--Darktown/Hanc.o.c.k Park--no leads.

Six IA men tapped out: no new Herrick/Kafesjian links. Links extant: Pennsylvania/chemical work/L.A. arrivals '31--'32. Late-'31 marriages: Joan Renfrew, Madge Clarkson--no criminal records--their hometowns queried.

Meg chasing real estate: a Spindrift pad t.i.tle search. Zero so far, Meg persisting.

The Kafesjians at home, cabin-fevered--Feds out front, Feds out back. Partnered-up-family-tight--no way to tell them: You and the Herricks--filthy together. Liquor bottles smashed/dogs blinded/music trashed--murder/suicide/castration--I can TASTE it. You'll tell me, you'll tell somebody--I'm partnered up strong on my ride down.

Strong and dirty: Exley. Strong/cautious/grasping: Noonan.

Use them both: fight/squirm/lie/beg/ manipulate them.

Exley: Johnny D. as my wedge. The Feds--no lever yet--that fire fried my momentum. Henstell: "You know, Mr. Noonan was starting to think you'd be a pretty good witness."

Was/is/could be/would be: DUES TIME. Junior nullified now--Glenda safe--punch my new grief ticket: FEDERAL.

No pre-court testimony taken yet--custody meant interrogation. Noonan--cautious/grasping--shooting me wake-up phone calls: "You're commanding a homicide case-how odd."

"Would Richard Herrick be the Richie you seem to be so interested in? The man Tommy Kafesjian seems to be rather concerned with? Chief Exley told the _Herald_ that you worked on a burglary case that may be tangentially connected to the killings. We _must_ discuss this after you enter custody."

"I understand the dilemma you're in, David. You may think that you can dissemble to us and be less than forthcoming vis-a-vis your organized-crime connections, thus sparing yourself a Syndicate death sentence. You will of course be given Federal protection after your grand jury testimony, but you should know now that lies and lies by omission will not be tolerated."

Smart f.u.c.ker.

Holding back information--bet on it. My big fear: those Fed tails postJohnson. Long-shot stuff, hard to shake: Abe Voldrich snuffed, a blue Pontiac spotted. Jack Woods--nine contract hits minimum--_my_ preferred killer. Jack Woods, proud owner: a powder-blue '56 Pontiac.

Downtown, the 3rd Street Bridge, Boyle Heights. East to Wabash-- Brownell's Locksmiths-- A parking-lot drive-up hut.

Four keys--three numbered--maybe traceable.

I pulled up, honked. A man right there, customer smile on. "Help you?"

I flashed my badge and the key fob. "158-32, 159-32, 160-32, and one unstamped. Who did you make them for?"

"I don't even have to check my files, 'cause that 32 coding's from this rent-a-locker storage place I do all the locker keys for."

"So you don't know who rented these individual lockers?"

"Right you are. The unstamped key's for the front door, the number keys are for lockers. And I don't cut no duplicates 'less the manager at the place gives the okay."

"What 'place'?"

"The Lock-Your-Self at 1750 North Echo Park Boulevard, which is open twenty-four hours, case you didn't know."

"You're pretty snappy with your answers."

"Well . . ."

"Come on, tell me."

"Well . . ."

"Well nothing, I'm a police officer."

Whiny, wheedling: "Well, I hate to be a stool pigeon, 'cause I sorta liked the guy."

"What guy?"

"I don't know his name, but he's that little Mex bantam fights at the Olympic all the time."

"Reuben Ruiz?"