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“They told me. They also said you got bossy. Shitcan that, or you’ll get a rep as a prima do
Da
“Not yet, but I think we’ve got the car it was transported in. It’s a ‘47 Buick Super, green, abandoned a half block up from the building site. White upholstery with what looks like bloodstains. It was reported stolen at ten this morning, clouted outside a jazz club on South Central. The owner was still drunk when he called in—you call him for details.”
“Print man dusting it?”
“Being done now.”
“Is SID going over the lot?”
“No. The print man was all I could wangle downtown.”
“Shit. Captain, I want this one.”
“You can have it. No publicity, though. I don’t want another Black Dahlia mess.”
“What about another man to work with me?”
Dietrich sighed—long and slow. “If the victim warrants it. For now, it’s just you. We’ve only got four detectives, Da
Da
Dietrich said, “You’re smarter than that, Deputy.”
Da
The day had turned cool and cloudy. Da
The print wagon and abandoned Buick were up at the end of the block. Da
Da
Da
The killer drove his victim to the building site like a chauffeur, the stiff propped up in his white terry robe, eyeless head lolling against the sideboard, oozing the salve or ointment. The crisscross strips on the seat rests were the razorlike cuts on his back soaking through; the blood patch on the cushion was the corpse flopping over sideways when the killer made a sharp right turn.
“Hey! Deputy!”
The print man was sitting up, obviously pissed that he was taking liberties. “Look, I have to dust the back now. Do you mind…”
Da
“What’s your name, son?”
Now the old tech was really ticked. Da
“Do you feel like telling me how you know that?”
The two-way in the print wagon crackled; the old-timer got out of the Buick, shaking his head. Da
The tech called out, “For you, Upshaw.”
Da
A female voice, static-filtered, answered. “Karen, Da
Karen Hiltscher, the clerk/dispatcher at the station; his errand girl—occasional sweet talk for her favors. She hadn’t figured out that he wasn’t interested and persisted in using first names over the County air. Da
“There’s an ID on your 187. Martin Mitchell Goines, male Caucasian, DOB 11/9/16. Two convictions for marijuana possession, two years County for the first, three to five State for the other. Paroled from San Quentin after three and a half, August of ‘48. His last known address was a halfway house on 8th and Alvarado. He was a State parole absconder, bench warrant issued. Under employment he’s listed as a musician, registered with Union Local 3126 in Hollywood.”
Da
“Just came in.”
He put on his sugar voice. “Help me with paperwork, sweet? Some phone calls?”
Karen’s voice came out whiny and catty—even over the static. “Sure, Da
“Twenty minutes.” Da
Da
He was club-hopping in darktown from 9:00 or so on, the bop joints around Slauson and Central—the Zombie, Bido Lito’s, Tommy Tucker’s Playroom, Malloy’s Nest. Leaving the Nest around 1:00 A.M., he walked over to where he thought he left his Buick. It wasn’t there, so he retraced his steps, drunk, figuring he’d ditched the car on a side street. The rain was drenching him, he was woozy from mai tais and champagne, he took a cab home and woke up—still smashed—at 8:30. He took another cab back to South Central, searched for the Buick for a solid hour, didn’t find it and called the police to report it stolen. He then hailed another taxi and returned home again, to be contacted by the watch sergeant at the West Hollywood substation, who told him his pride and joy was a likely transport vehicle in a homicide case, and now, at 3:45 P.M. New Year’s Day, he wanted his baby back—and that was that.
Da
Karen Hiltscher was out on her di