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Which meant that the killer bit and gnawed and swiveled and gnashed his teeth to get a purchase on his victim’s entrails, sucking the flesh upward to leave inflamed borders as he ravaged— Da
Da
Karen was working the switchboard, plugging in calls, a headset attached to her Veronica Lake hairdo. The girl was nineteen, bottle blonde and busty—a civilian LASD employee flagged for the next woman’s opening at the Sheriff’s Academy. Da
Da
The girl noticed him and took off her headset. She looked pouty; Da
Da
Karen lit a cigarette a la Veronica Lake and coughed—she only smoked when she was trying to vamp the cops working day watch. “Sergeant Norris heard me call Eddie Edwards ‘Eddie’ and said I should call him Deputy Edwards, that I shouldn’t be so familiar until I get rank.”
“You tell Norris I said you can call me Da
Karen made a face. “Daniel Thomas Upshaw is a nice name. I told my mother, and she said it was a really nice name, too.”
“What else did you tell her about me?”
“That you’re really sweet and handsome, but you’re playing hard to get. What’s in those files?”
“Sex offender reports.”
“For that homicide you’re working?”
Da
Karen made another face—half vixen, half coquette. “I would have told you. Why did you give me those reports?”
Da
Karen Hiltscher tried to return the wink, but her false eyelash stuck to the ridge below her eye, and she had to fumble her cigarette into a ashtray and pull it free. Da
Da
Karen said, “Got it.”
Da
Musician’s Local 3126 was on Vine Street just north of Melrose, a tan Quonset hut sandwiched between a doughnut stand and a liquor store. Hepcat types were lounging around the front door, scarfing crullers and coffee, half pints and short dogs of muscatel.
Da
The woman ignored the badge and squinted at the strip. “This guy play trombone?”
“That’s right. Martin Mitchell Goines. You sent him down to Bido Lito’s around Christmas.”
The woman squinted harder. “He’s got trombone lips. What did he do you for?”
Da
The slattern tapped the strip with a long red nail. “The same old same old. What can I do you for?”
Da
The woman about-faced, opened and shut drawers, leafed through folders, yanked one and gave the top page a quick scrutiny. Laying it down on the counter, she said, “A nowhere horn. From Squaresville.”
Da
Under his self-proclaimed ba
Da
“You’re right. Look, do you think any of these guys around here might have known—I mean know—Marty Goines?”
“I can ask.”
“Do it. Would you mind?”
The woman rolled her eyes up to heaven, drew a dollar sign in the air and pointed to her cleavage. Da
The slattern snapped up the bill and disappeared behind the filing cabinets. Da