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Da
“DB 6841 is Donald Willis Wachtel, 1638 Franklin Street, Santa Monica. GX 1167 is Timothy James Costigan, 11692 Saticoy Street, Van Nuys. On QS 3334, we’ve got Alan Brian Marks with a K-S, 209 4th Avenue, Venice, and TR 4191 is Augie Luis—that’s L-U-I-S—Duarte, 1890 North Vendome, Los Angeles. That’s it.” No sparks on the names—except the “Duarte” seemed vaguely familiar. Da
Felix Gordean walked out the door a few moments later. He checked the lock and flipped a switch that doused the carport lights, backed the Rolls out and hung a U-turn, then headed west on Sunset. Da
The Rolls was easy to track—Gordean drove cautiously and stuck to the middle lane. Da
They cruised west, out of the Strip and into Beverly Hills. At Linden the middle car hung a right turn and headed north; Da
He let the throttle up; the beams came on that much stronger, then disappeared. He looked in the rear-view, saw low headlights three car lengths back and no one else on the road; he hit the gas and jammed forward until Gordean’s Rolls was less than a short stone’s throw from the snout of his Chevy. Another check of the rear-view; the back car right on his ass.
Tail.
Moving surveillance on him.
Three-car rolling stakeout.
Da
Just then the sedan turned hard right and hauled up a barely lit side street. Da
Bungalows lined both sides of the street; a sign designated it “La Paloma Dr, 1900 N.” Da
Da
His heart was booming; his throat was dry; his legs were butter and his gun hand twitched. He listened and heard nothing but himself; he sca
Da
Nothing on the seat covers; the registration strapped to the steering column—right where it should be. Da
Wardell John Hascomb, 9816 1/4 South Iola, Los Angeles. Registration number Cal 416893-H; license number Cal JO 1338.
LA South Central, darktown, the area where the killer stole the Marty Goines transport car.
HIM.
Da
“Yeah? Who’s requesting?”
“D-Deputy Upshaw, West Hollywood Squad.”
“The guy from half an hour or so ago?”
“Goddamn—yes, and check the Hot Sheet for this: 1948 Pontiac Super Chief Sedan, Cal JO 1338. If it’s hot, I want the address it was stolen from.”
“Gotcha,” silence. Da
The operator came back. “She’s hot, clouted outside 9945 South Normandie this afternoon. The owner is one Wardell J. Hascomb, male Negro, 9816 South—”
“I’ve got that.”
“You know, Deputy, your partner was a whole lot nicer.”
“What?”
The operator sounded exasperated, like he was talking to a cretin. “Deputy Jones from your squad. He called in for a repeat on those four names I gave you, said you lost your notes.”
Now the booth went freezing. No such deputy existed; someone—probably HIM—had been watching him stake Gordean’s office, close enough to overhear his conversation with the clerk and glom the gist—that he was requesting vehicle registrations. Da
“Your partner’s? Too cultured for a County plainclothes dick, I’ll—”
Da
“Okay,” a soft click, the old-timer cop yawning, “Yes? Who’s this?”
“Upshaw. Jack, the killer was tailing me in a hot roller.”
“What the—”
“Just listen. I spotted him, and he rabbited and abandoned the car. Write this down: ‘48 Pontiac Super, brown, La Paloma Drive off Sunset in the Palisades, where it flattens out at the hill. Print man to dust it, you to canvass. He took off on foot and it’s all hills there, so I’m pretty sure he’s gone, but do it anyway. And fast—I won’t be there to watchdog.”
“Holy fuck.”
“In spades, and get me this—records checks on these four men—Donald Wachtel, 1638 Franklin, Santa Monica. Timothy Costigan, 11692 Saticoy, Van Nuys. Alan Marks, 209 4th Avenue, Venice, and Augie Duarte, 1890 Vendome, LA. Got it?”
Shortell said, “You’ve got it”; Da
It was on the beach side of the road, a white wood Colonial built on pilings sunk into the sand, “Felix Gordean, Esq,” in deco by the mailbox. Da