He stalled with a last cup of tea. Stitches, dental work-his wounds were healing, made small: his mother and Inez blurred together. He'd gotten a report: Dick Stens hung out with known armed robbers, bet with bookies, took his salary in cash and frequented whorehouses. When his men had him pinned cold they'd call County Probation and fix an arrest.

Which paled beside "Officer White's the hero" and Inez Soto with the fire to hate him.

Ed paid the check, drove to Queen of Angels.

Bud White was walking out.

They crossed by the elevator. White got the first word in. "Give your career a rest and let her sleep."

"What are you doing here?"

"Not looking to pump a witness. Leave her alone, you'll get your chance."

"'This is just a visit."

"She sees through you, Exley. You can't buy her off with teddy bears."

"Don't you want the case cleared? Or are you just frustrated that there's nobody else for you to kill?"

"Big talk from a brownnosing snitch."

"Did you come here to get laid?"

"Different circumstances, I'd eat you for that."

"Sooner or later, I'll take you and Stensland down."

"That goes two ways. War hero, huh? Those Japs must've rolled over for you."

Ed flinched.

White winked.

Tremors-all the way up to her room. Ed looked before he knocked.

Inez was awake-reading a magazine. Stuffed animals strewn on the floor, one creature on the bed: Scooter Squirrel as a footrest. Inez saw him, said, "No."

Faded bruises, her features coming back hard. "No what, Miss Soto?"

"No, I won't go through it with you."

"Not even a few questions?"

"No."

Ed pulled a chair up. "You don't seem surprised to see me here so late."

"I'm not, you're the subtle type." She pointed to the animals. "Did the district attorney reimburse you for those?"

"No, that was out of my own pocket. Did Ellis Loew visit you?"

"Yes, and I told him no. I told him that the three «negrito putos» drove me around, took money from other «putos» and left me with the «negrito puto» that Officer White killed. I told him that I can't remember or won't remember or don't want to remember any more details, he can take his pick and that is «absolutamente» all there is to it."

Ed said, "Miss Soto, I just came to say hello."

She laughed in his face. "You want the rest of the story? An hour later my brother Juan calls and tells me I can't go home, that I disgraced the family. Then «puto» Mr. Loew calls and says he can put me up in a hotel if I cooperate, then the gift shop girl brings me those «puto» animals and says they're gifts from the nice policeman with the glasses. I've been to college, «pendejo». Don't you think I can follow the chain of events?"

Ed pointed to Scooter Squirrel. "You didn't throw him away."

"He's special."

"Do you like Dieterling characters?"

"So what if I do!"

"Just asking. And where do you put Bud White in your chain of events?"

Inez fluffed her pillows. "He killed a man for me."

"He killed him for himself."

"And that «puto» animal is dead just the same. Officer White just comes by to say hello. He warns me about you and Mr. Loew. He tells me I should cooperate, but he doesn't press the subject. He hates you, subtle man. I can tell."

"You're a smart girl, Inez."

"You want to say 'for a Mexican,' I know that."

"No, you're wrong. You're just plain smart. And you're lonely, or you would have asked me to leave."

Inez threw her magazine down. "So what if I am!"

Ed picked it up. Dog-eared pages: a piece on Dream-aDreamland. "I'm going to recommend that we give you some time to get well and recommend that when this mess goes to court you be allowed to testify by written deposition. If we get enough Nite Owl corroboration from other sources, you might not have to testify at all. And I won't come back if you don't want me to."

She stared at him. "I've still got no place to go."

"Did you read that article on the Dream-a-Dreamland opening?"

"Yes."

"Did you see the name 'Preston Exley'?"

"Yes."

"He's my father."

"So what? I know you're a rich kid, blowing your money on stuffed animals. So what? Where will I go?"

Ed held the bed rail. "I've got a cabin at Lake Arrowhead. You can stay there. I won't touch you, and I'll take you to the Dream-a-Dreamland opening."

Inez touched her head. "What about my hair?"

"I'll get you a nice bonnet."

Inez sobbed, hugged Scooter Squirrel.

Ed met the sappers at dawn, groggy from dreams: Inez, other women. Ray Pinker brought flashlights, spades, metal detectors; he'd had Communications Division issue a public appeal: witnesses to the Griffith Park shotgun blastings were asked to come forth to ID the blasters. The occurrence report locations were marked out into grids-all steep, scrub-covered hillsides. The men dug, uprooted, scanned with gizmos going tick, tick, tick-they found coins, tin cans, a.32 revolver. Hours came, went; the sun beat down. Ed worked hard-breathing dirt, risking sunstroke. His dreams returned, circles leading back to Inez.

Anne from the Marlborough School Cotillion-they did it in a '38 Dodge, his legs banged the doors. Penny from his UCLA biology class: rum punch at his frat house, a quick backyard coupling. A string of patriotic roundheels on his bond tour, a one-night stand with an older woman-a Central Division dispatcher. Their faces were hard to remember; he tried and kept seeing Inez-Inez without bruises, no hospital smock. It was dizzying, the heat was dizzying, he was filthy, exhausted-it all felt good. More hours went-he couldn't think of women or anything else. More time down, yells in the distance, a hand on his shoulder.

Ray Pinker holding out two spent shotgun shells and a photo of a shotgun shell strike surface. A perfect match: identical firing pin marks straight across.

Two days since the Fleur-de-Lis grab-no way to tell how far he could take it.

Two days, one suspect: Lamar Hinton, age twenty-six, arrested for strongarm assault, a conviction on an ADW, a deuce at Chino -paroled 3/51. Current employment: telephone installer at P.C. Bell-his parole officer suspected he moonlighted tigging bootleg bookie lines. A mugshot match: Hinton the muscle boy at Timmy Valburn's house.

Two days, no break on his stalemate: a made case would ticket him back to Narco, making «this» case meant Valburn and Billy Dieterling for material witnesses-well-connected homos who could flush his Hollywood career down the toilet.

Two days of page prowling-every roundabout approach tapped out. He checked the collateral case reports, talked to the arrestees-more denials-nobody admitted buying the smut. One day wasted; nothing at Ad Vice to goose his leads: Stathis, Henderson, Kitka reported zero, Millard was trying to co-boss the Nite Owl-pornography was not on his mind.

Two days since: midway through day two he hit hard-the bootleg number, Muscle Boy.

No Fleur-de-Lis phone listing; brain gymnastics tagged his personal connection-the first time he saw the caffing card.

Tilt:

Xmas Eve '51, right before Bloody Christmas. Sid Hudgens set up a reefer roust-he popped two grasshoppers, found the card at their pad, thought nothing else of it.

Scary Sid: "We've all got secrets, Jack."

He pushed ahead anyway, that undertow driving him: he wanted to know who made the smut-and why. He hit the P.C. Bell employment office, cross-checked records against physical stats until he hit Lamar Hinton-tilt, tilt, tilt, tilt, tilt- Jack looked around the squadroom-men talking Nite Owl, Nite Owl, Nite Owl, the Big V chasing hand-job books.

The orgy pix.

Vertigo.