“… he’s alseep, Daddy.”

“Don’t call me ‘Daddy’ on the job, I’ve told you a million goddamn times. It makes you sound like a nancy boy.”

“I proved I’m not no nancy boy. Homos couldn’t do what I did. I’m not cherry no more, so don’t say nancy boy.”

“Be still, damn you.”

“Daddy, I mean Dad—”

“I said be still, Johnny.”

The fat braggart cop reduced to a child grabbed my interest; I faked a snore-wheeze so the two would keep it up. Johnny whispered, “See, Dad, he’s asleep. And he’s the nance, not me. I proved it. Buck-tooth bastard. I could take him, Dad. You know I could. Job-stealing bastard, I had Warrants in the bag until—”

“John Charles Vogel, you hush this instant or I’ll take a strap to you, twenty-four-year-old policeman or not.”

The radio started barking then; I faked a big yawn. Johnny turned around and smiled. He said, “Catch up on your beauty sleep?” wafting his legendary halitosis.

My first instinct was to call him on his crack about taking me—then my sense of squadroom politics took over. “Yeah, I had a late night.”

Johnny winked ineffectually. “I’m a quiff hound myself. I go a week without it, I’m climbing the walls.”

The dispatcher droned, “… repeat, 10-A-94, roger your location.”

Fritzie grabbed the mike. “10-A-94, rogering at Victory and Saticoy.”

The dispatcher replied, “See the barman at the Caledonia Lounge, Victory and Valley View. Warrantee Linda Martin reported there now. Code three.”

Fritzie hit the siren and punched the gas. Cars pulled to the curb; we shot forward in the middle lane. I sent one up to the Calvinist God I believed in as a kid: don’t let the Martin girl mention Madeleine Sprague. Valley View Avenue appeared in the windshield; Fritzie hung a hard right turn, killing the siren in front of a mock-bamboo hut.

The bar’s mock-bamboo door burst open; Linda Martin/Lorna Martilkova, looking as fresh-scrubbed as her picture, burst out. I tumbled from the car and hit the sidewalk running, Vogel and Vogel huffing and puffing behind me. Linda/Lorna ran like an antelope, clutching an oversized purse to her chest; I closed the distance between us by sprinting flat-out. The girl reached a busy side street and darted into traffic; cars swerved to avoid hitting her. She looked over her shoulder then; I dodged a beer truck and motorcycle on a collision course, sucked wind and hauled. The girl stumbled over the opposite curb, her purse went flying, I made a final leap and grabbed her.

She came up off the pavement spitting and beating at my chest; I grabbed her tiny fists, twisted them behind her back and cuffed her wrists. Lorna tried kicking then, well-aimed little shots at my legs. One kick connected with my shinbone; the girl, off balance from the cuffs, hit the ground ass-first. I helped her up, catching a wad of spittle on my shirtfront. Lorna yelped, “I’m an emancipated minor and if you touch me without a matron present I can sue you!” Catching my breath, I push-pulled her over to where her purse was lying.

I picked it up, surprised by the bulk and weight. Looking inside, I saw a small metal film can. I said, “What’s the movie about?” The girl stammered, “P-P-Please, mister, my p-pparents.”

A horn tooted; I saw Johnny Vogel leaning out the window of the cruiser. “Millard said to bring the girl to Georgia Street juvie.”

I hauled Lorna over and shoved her into the backseat. Fritzie hit the siren, and we leadfooted.

The run to downtown LA took thirty-five minutes.

Millard and Sears were waiting for us on the steps of Georgia Street Juvenile Hall. I led the girl in while Vogel and Vogel strode ahead. Court matrons and juvie dicks cleared a path for us inside; Millard opened a door marked DETENTION INTERVIEWS. I removed Lorna’s cuffs, Sears walked into the room, pulled out seats and arranged ashtrays and notepads. Millard said, “Johnny, you go back to University and work the phones.”

Fat Boy started to protest, then looked at his father. Fritzie nodded yes; Johnny exited, looking wounded. Fritzie announced, “I’m gonna call Mr. Loew. He should be in on this.”

Millard said, “No. Not until we have a statement.”

“Give her to me, I’ll get you a statement.”

“A voluntary statement, Sergeant.”

Fritzie flushed. “I consider that a goddamn insult, Millard.”

“You consider it what you damn well like, but you do what I damn well say, Mr. Loew or no Mr. Loew.”

Fritz Vogel stood perfectly still. He looked like a human A-bomb about to explode, his voice the fuse: “You whored with the Dahlia, didn’t you, girlie? You peddled your little twat with her. Tell me where you were during her lost days.”

Lorna said, “Screw you, Charlie.”

Fritzie stepped toward her; Millard moved between them. “I’ll ask the questions, Sergeant.”

You could have heard a pin drop. Vogel stood toe to toe with Millard. Seconds stretched, and then Fritzie squeaked, “You’re a goddamned bleeding heart Bolshevik.”

Millard took one step forward; Vogel took one step back. “Get out, Fritzie.”

Vogel took three steps backward. His heels hit the wall, and he pivoted out the door, slamming it. The echo reverberated; Harry disarmed the remnants of the bomb: “How does it feel to be the object of such a fuss, Miss Martilkova?”

The girl said, “I’m Linda Martin,” and tugged at the pleats of her skirt.

I took a seat, caught Millard’s eye and pointed to the purse resting on the table, the film can poking out. The lieutenant nodded and sat down next to Lorna. “You know this is about Betty Short, don’t you, sweetheart?”

The girl lowered her head and began sniffling; Harry handed her a Kleenex. She tore it into strips and smoothed them out on the table. “Does this mean I’ll have to go back to my folks?”

Millard nodded. “Yes.”

“My dad hits me. He’s a dumb Slovak, and he gets drunk and hits me.”

“Sweetheart, when you get back to Iowa you’ll be on non-court probation. You tell your probation officer your father hits you and he’ll put a stop to it damn quick.”

“If my dad finds out what I did in LA, he’ll hit me bad.”

“He won’t find out, Linda. I told those other two officers to leave to make sure what you say stays confidential.”

“If you send me back to Cedar Rapids, I’ll just run away again.”

“I’m sure you will. Now the sooner you tell us what we want to know about Betty and the sooner we believe you, the sooner you’ll be on the train and able to escape. So that gives you a good reason to be truthful with us, doesn’t it, Linda?”

The girl went back to playing with her Kleenex. I sensed a jaded little brain considering all the angles, all the possible outs. Finally she sighed, “Call me Lorna. If I’m going back to Iowa I should get used to it.”

Millard smiled; Harry Sears lit a cigarette and poised his pen over his steno pad. My blood pressure zoomed to the tune of “No Madeleine, no Madeleine, no Madeleine.”

Russ said, “Lorna, are you ready to talk to us?”

The former Linda Martin said, “Shoot.”

Millard asked, “When and where did you meet Betty Short?”

Lorna mussed up her Kleenex strips. “Last fall, at this career girl’s place on Cherokee.”

“1842 North Cherokee?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And you became friends?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Say yes or no please, Lorna.”

“Yes, we became friends.”

“What did you do together?”

Lorna bit at her cuticles. “We talked girl talk, we made casting rounds, we bummed drinks and dinner at bars—”

I interrupted: “What kind of bars?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean nice places? Dives? Servicemen’s hangouts?”

“Oh. Just places in Hollywood. Places where we figured they wouldn’t ask me for ID.”

My blood pressure decelerated. Millard said, “You told Betty about the rooming house on Orange Drive, the place where you were staying, right?”