Bud drove to a mailbox, sent the cash out special delivery: Kathy Janeway, Orchid View Motel, plenty of stamps and a friendly note. Four hundred plus-a small fortune for a kid.

7:00-time to kill before he met Dudley. The Bureau for a time-killer: Ad Vice, the squadroom board.

Squad 4 on the smut job-Kifka, Henderson, Vincennes, Stathis-four men tracking stag books, all reporting no leads. Nobody around, he could check by in the morning, it was probably nothing anyway. He walked over to Homicide, called Abe's Noshery.

Stens answered.

"Abe's."

"Dick, it's me."

"Oh? Checking up on me, «Officer?»"

"Dick, come on."

"No, I mean it. You're a Dudley man now. Maybe Dud don't like the people I push my corned beef to. Maybe Dud wants skinny, thinks I'll talk to you. It ain't like you're your own man no more."

"You been drinking, partner?"

"I drink kosher now. Tell Exicy that. Tell him Danny Duck wants to dance with him. Tell him I read about his old man and Dream-a-fucking-Dreamland. Tell him I might come to the opening, Danny Duck requests the presence of Sergeant Ed cocksucker Exley for one more fucking dance."

"Dick, you're way out of line."

"The fuck you say. One more dance, Danny Duck's gonna break his glasses and chew his fuckin' throat-"

"Dick, goddammit-"

"Hey, fuck you! I read the papers, I saw the personnel on that Nite Owl job. You, Dudley S., Exley, the rest of Dudley 's hard-ons. You're fucking partners with the cocksucker who put me away, you're sucking the same gravy case, so if you th-"

Bud threw the phone out the window. He walked down to the lot kicking things-then the Big Picture kicked him.

He should have swung for Bloody Christmas.

Dudley saved him.

Make Exley the Nite Owl hero so far-he'd be the one to send Inez back through Hell.

Strangeness on the Cathcart end, the case might go wide, more than a psycho robbery gang. «He» could make the case, twist Exley, work an angle to help out Stens. Which meant:

Not greasing Ad Vice for smut leads.

Holding back evidence from Dudley.

BEING A DETECTIVE-NOT A HEADBASHER-ON HIS OWN.

He fed himself drunk talk for guts:

It ain't like you're your own man.

It ain't like you're your own man.

It ain't like you're your own man.

He was scared.

He owed Dudley.

He was crossing the only man on earth more dangerous than he was.

Ray Pinker walked Ed through the Nite Owl, reconstructing.

"Bim, bam, I'm betting it happened like this. First, the three enter and show their weaponry. One man takes the cash register girl, the kitchen boy and the waitress. This guy hits Donna DeLuca with his shotgun butt-she's standing by the cash register, and we found a piece of her scalp on the floor there. She gives him the money and the money from her purse, he shoves her and Patty Chesimard to the locker, picking up Gilbert Escobar in the kitchen en route. Gilbert resists-note the drag marks, the pots and pans on the floor. A pop to the head-bim, barn-that little pool of blood you see outlined in chalk. The safe is exposed under the cook's stand, one of the three employee victims opens it, note the spilled coins. Bim, barn, Gilbert resists some more, another gun-butt shot, note the circle marked 1-A on the floor, we found three gold teeth there, bagged them and matched them: Gilbert Luis Escobar. The drag marks start there, old Gil has quit fighting, bim, bam, suspect number one plants victims one, two and three inside the food locker."

Back to the restaurant proper-still sealed three nights post-mortem. Gawkers pressed up to the windows; Pinker kept talking. "Meanwhile, gunmen two and three are rounding up victims four through six. The drag marks going back to the locker and the spilled food and dishes speak for themselves. You might not be able to see it because the linoleum's so dark, but there's blood under the first two tables: Cathcart and Lunceford, sitting separately, two gun-butt shots. We know who was where through blood typing. Cathcart drops by table two, Lunceford by table one. Now-"

Ed cut in. "Did you dust the plates for more confirmation?"

Pinker nodded. "Smudges and smears, two viable latents on dishes under Lunceford's table. That's how we ID'd him-we got a match to the set they took when he joined the LAPD. Cathcart and Susan Lefferts had their hands blown off, no way to cross-check on that, their dishes were too smudged anyway. We tagged Cathcart on a partial dental and his prison measurement chart, Lefferts on a full dental. Now, you see the shoe on the floor?"

"Yes."

"Well, from an angle study it looks like Lefferts was flailing to get to Cathcart at the next table, even though they were sitting separately. Dumb panic, she obviously didn't know him. She started screaming, and one of the gunmen stuck a wad of napkins from that container there in her mouth. Doc Layman found a big wad of swallowed tissue in her throat at autopsy, he thinks she might have gagged and suffocated just as the shooting started. Bim, barn, Cathcart and Lefferts are dragged to the locker, Lunceford walks, the poor bastard probably thinks it's just a stickup. At the locker, purses and wallets are taken-we found a scrap of Gilbert Escobar's driver's license floating in blood just inside the door, along with six wax-saturated cotton balls. The gunmen had the brains to protect their ears."

The last bit didn't play: his coloreds were too impetuous. "It doesn't seem like enough men to do the job."

Pinker shrugged. "It worked. Are you suggesting one or more of the victims knew one or more of the killers?"

"I know, it's unlikely."

"Do you want to see the locker? It'll have to be now, we promised the owner he could have the place back."

"I saw it that night."

"I saw the pictures. Jesus, you couldn't tell they were human. You're working the Lefferts background check, right?"

Ed looked out the window; a pretty girl waved at him. Dark-haired, Latin-she looked like Inez Soto. "Right."

"And?"

"And I spent a full day in San Bernardino and got nowhere. The woman used to live with her mother, who was half-sedated and wouldn't talk to me. I talked to acquaintances, and they told me Sue Lefferts was a chronic insomniac who listened to the radio all night. She had no boyfriends in recent memory, no enemies ever. I checked her apartment in L.A., which was just about what you'd expect for a thirty-one-year-old salesgirl. One of the San Berdoo people said she was a bit of a roundheels, one said she belly-danced at a Greek restaurant a few times for laughs. Nothing suspicious."

"It keeps coming back to the Negroes."

"Yes, it does."

"Any luck on the car or the weapons?"

"No, and 77th Street 's checking trashcans and sewer grates for the purses and wallets. And I know an approach we can make and save the investigation a lot of time."

Pinker smiled. " Check Griffith Park for the nicked shells?"

Ed turned to the window-the Inez type was gone. "If we place those shells, then it's either the Negroes in custody or another three."

"Sergeant, that is one large long shot."

"I know, and I'll help."

Pinker checked his watch. "It's 10:30 now. I'll find the occurrence reports on those shootings, try to pinpoint the locations and meet you with a sapper squad tomorrow at dawn. Say the Observatory parking lot?"

"I'll be there."

"Should I get clearance from Lieutenant Smith?"

"Do it on my say-so, okay? I'm reporting directly to Parker on this."

"The park at dawn then. Wear some old clothes, it'll be filthy work."

Ed ate Chinese on Alvarado. He knew why he was heading that way: Queen of Angels was close, Inez Soto might be awake. He'd called the hospital: Inez was healing up quickly, her family hadn't visited, her sister called, said Mama and Papa blamed her for the nightmare-provocative clothing, worldly ways. She'd been crying for her stuffed animals; he had the gift shop send up an assortment-gifts to ease his conscience-he wanted her as a major witness in his first big homicide case. And he just wanted her to like him, wanted her to disown four words: "Officer White's the hero."