Millard glanced around and noticed me. “Bleichert, what are you doing here? Is Blanchard here, too?”

Lee was squatting beside the stiff, writing in a pocket notebook. Pointing north, I said, “Junior Nash is renting a garage in back of that building over there. We were shaking it down when we saw the hubbub.”

“Was there blood on the premises?”

“No. This isn’t Nash, Lieutenant.”

“We’ll let the lab men be the judge of that. Harry!”

Sears was sitting in a black-and-white, talking into a radio mike. Hearing his name, he yelled, “Yeah, Russ!”

“Harry, when the lab men get here have them go up to that green building on the corner and test the garage for blood and latent prints. Then I want the street sealed—”

Millard stopped when he saw cars swinging onto Norton, beelining for the commotion; I glanced down at the corpse. The photo techs were still snapping pictures from all angles; Lee was still jotting in his notebook. The men milling around on the sidewalk kept looking at the stiff, then averting their eyes. On the street, reporters and camera jockeys were pouring out of cars, Harry Sears and a cordon of blues standing at the ready to hold them back. I got itchy to stare, and gave the girl a detailed eyeing.

Her legs were spread for sex, and from the way the knees buckled I could tell that they were broken; her jet-black hair was free of matted blood, like the killer had given her a shampoo before he dumped her. That awful death leer came on like the final brutality—it was cracked teeth poking out of ulcerated flesh that forced me to look away.

I found Lee on the sidewalk, helping string up crime scene ropes. He stared through me, like all he could see was the ghosts in the air. I said, “Junior Nash, remember?”

Lee’s gaze zeroed in on me. “He didn’t do this. He’s trash, but he didn’t do this.”

Noise rose from the street as more reporters arrived and a line of blues linked arms to restrain them. I shouted to make myself heard: “He beat an old woman to death! He’s our priority warrantee!”

Lee grabbed my arms and squeezed them numb. “This is our priority, and we’re staying! I’m senior, and I say so!” The words rumbled over the scene, causing heads to turn in our direction. I pulled my arms free and snapped to who Lee’s ghost was.

“Okay, partner.”

Over the next hour,9th and Norton filled up with police vehicles, reporters and a big crowd of rubberneckers. The body was removed on two sheet-covered stretchers; in the back of the meat wagon a lab team rolled the dead girl’s prints before hauling her downtown to the morgue. Harry Sears gave the press a handout that Russ Millard composed, the straight dope of everything except the gutting of the stiff. Sears drove to City Hall to check the records of the Missing Persons Bureau, and Millard stayed behind to direct the investigation.

Lab technicians were dispatched to prowl the lot for possible murder weapons and women’s clothing; another forensic team was sent to check for latents and bloodstains at Junior Nash’s fuck pad. Then Millard counted cop heads. There were four men directing traffic and keeping civilian ghouls in line, twelve bluesuits and five plainclothesmen, Lee and me. Millard dug a street atlas out of his cruiser and divided the entire Leimert Park area into foot beats, then assigned each man his territory and mandatory questions to be asked of every person in every house, apartment and store: Have you heard female screams at any time over the past forty-eight hours? Have you seen anyone discarding or incinerating women’s clothing? Have you noticed any suspicious cars or people loitering in the area? Have you passed by Norton Avenue between9th and Coliseum Streets during the past twenty-four hours, and if so, did you notice anyone in the vacant lots?

I was assigned Olmsted Avenue, three blocks east of Norton, from Coliseum south to Leimert Boulevard; Lee was given the stores and building sites on Crenshaw, from9th north to Jefferson. We made plans to meet at the Olympic at 8:00 and split up; I started pounding pavement.

I walked, rang doorbells and asked questions, getting negative answers, writing down the addresses where no one was at home, so that the second wave of canvassing cops would have the numbers to work from. I talked to sherry-sneaking housewives and bratty little kids; to pensioners and on-leave servicemen, even an off-duty cop who worked West LA Division. I threw in questions on Junior Nash and the late model white sedan and showed around his mug shots. All I got was a big fat zero; at 7:00 I walked back to my car disgusted by what I’d blundered into.

Lee’s car was gone, and forensic arclights were being set up at9th and Norton. I drove to the Olympic hoping for a good series of bouts to take the bad taste of the day out of my mouth.

H.J. Caruso had left tickets for us at the front turnstile, along with a note saying he had a hot date and wouldn’t be showing up. Lee’s ticket was still in the envelope; I grabbed mine and headed for H.J.’s box. The first prelim of an all-bantamweight card had already started, and I settled in to watch and wait for Lee.

The two tiny Mex warriors put on a good fight, and the crowd ate it up. Coins rained down from the top tier; shouts in Spanish and English filled the arena. After four rounds I knew that Lee wasn’t going to show; the bantys, both cut bad, made me think of the butchered girl. I got up and left, knowing exactly where Lee was.

I drove back to9th and Norton. The entire lot was lit up by arclights—as bright as day. Lee was standing just inside the crime scene rope. The night had turned cold; he was hunched into his letterman’s jacket as he watched the lab techs poke around in the weeds.

I walked over. Lee saw me coming and did a quick draw, shooting me with finger pistols, his thumbs the hammers. It was a routine he pulled when he was jacked up on Benzedrine.

“You were supposed to meet me. Remember?”

Arclight glow gave Lee’s raw nerved face a blue-white cast. “I said this was priority. Remember that?”

Looking off in the distance, I saw other vacant lots illuminated. “It’s priority for the Bureau, maybe. Just like Junior Nash is priority for us.”

Lee shook his head. “Partner, this is big. Horrall and Thad Green were down here a couple of hours ago. Jack Tierney’s been detached to Homicide to run the investigation, with Russ Millard backstopping. You want my opinion?”

“Shoot.”

“It’s a showcase. A nice white girl gets snuffed, the Department goes all out to get the killer to show the voters that passing the bond issue got them a bulldog police force.”

“Maybe she wasn’t such a nice girl. Maybe that old lady that Nash killed was somebody’s loving granny. Maybe you’re taking this thing too personal, and maybe we let the Bureau handle it and get back to our job before Junior kills somebody else.”

Lee balled his fists. “You got any other maybes?”

I stepped forward. “Maybe you’re afraid of Bobby De Witt getting out. Maybe you’re too proud to ask me for help to scare him away from the woman we both care for. Maybe we let the Bureau chalk up that dead girl for Laurie Blanchard.”

Lee uncoiled his fists and turned away: I watched him rock on his heels, hoping he’d be fighting mad or wisecracking or anything but hurt when I finally saw his face. I made fists, then shouted: “Talk to me, goddamnit! We’re partners! We killed four fucking men together, now you pull this shit on me!”

Lee turned around. He flashed his patented demon grin, but it came off nervous and sad, used up. His voice was raspy, stretched thin.

“I used to watchdog Laurie when she played. I was a scrapper, and all the other kids were afraid of me. I had a lot of girlfriends—you know, kiddie romance stuff. The girls used to tease me about Laurie, go on about how much time I spent with her, like she was my real sweetheart.