Karen opened the door. A foyer light was on; Jack looked at her-shivering, goose bumps. Karen shook water from her hair. "The cats are upstairs."

Jack took off his blazer. "No, I want to hear your speech."

"I'm sure you know what it is. I'm sure lots of people have thanked you."

"You haven't."

Karen shivered. "Shit. I'm sorry, but this is not going the way I planned."

Jack draped his coat around her shoulders. "You got the L.A. papers over in England?"

"Yes."

"And you read about me?"

"Yes. You-"

"Karen, they exaggerate sometimes. They build things up."

"Are you telling me those things I've read are lies?"

"Not ex-no, they're not."

Karen turned away. "Good, I knew they were true, so here's your speech, and don't look at me, because I'm flustered. One, you got me away from taking pills. Two, you convinced my father to send me abroad, where I got a damn good education and met nice people. Three, you arrested that terrible man who sold me the pills."

Jack touched her; Karen flinched away. "No, let me tell it! Four, what I wasn't going to mention, is that Les Weiskopf gave girls pills for free if they slept with him. Father was stingy with my allowance and sooner or later I would have done it. So there-you kept my goddamned virtue intact."

Jack laughed. "Am I your goddamned hero?"

"Yes, and I'm twenty-two years old and not the schoolgirlcrush type."

"Good, because I'd like to take you to dinner sometime." Karen swung around. Her mascara was ruined; she'd chewed off most of her lipstick. "Yes. Mother and Father will have coronaries, but yes."

Jack said, "This is the first stupid move I've made in years."

A month of shit.

Bud ripped January 1952 off his calendar, counted felony arrests. January 1 through January 11: zero-he'd worked crowd control at a movie location-Parker wanted a muscle guy there to shoo away autograph hounds. January 14: the cop beaters acquitted on assault charges, Helenowski and Brownell chewed up-the spics' lawyer made it look like they instigated the whole thing. Civil suits threatened; "get a lawyer?" scribbled by the date.

January 16, 19, 22: wife thumpers paroled, welcome home visits. January 23-25: stakeouts on a burglary ring, him and Stens acting on a tip from Johnny Stomp, who just seemed to know things, per a rumor: he used to run a blackmail racket. Gangland activity at a weird lull, Stomp scuffling to stay solvent, Mo Jahelka-looking after Mickey C.'s interests-probably afraid to push too much muscle. Seven arrests total, good for his quota, but the papers were working the station brouhaha, dubbing it "Bloody Christmas," and a rumor hit: the D.A.'S Office had contacted Parker, TAD was going to question the men partying on Christmas Eve, the county grand jury was drooling for a presentation. More notes: "talk to Dick," "«lawyer???»," "«lawyer when??»"

The last week of the month-comic relief. Dick off duty, drying out at a health ranch in Twenty-nine Palms; the squad boss thought he was attending his father's funeral in Nebraska- the guys took up a collection to send flowers to a mortuary that didn't exist. Two felony notches on the 29th: parole violators he'd glommed off another Stomp snitch-but he'd had to beat the shit out of them, kidnap them, haul them from county turf to city so the Sheriff's couldn't claim the roust. The 3 1st: a dance with Chick Nadel, a barkeep who ran hot appliances out of the Moonglow Lounge. An impromptu raid; Chick with a stash of hot radios; a snitch on the guys who boosted the truck, holed up in San Diego, no way to make it an LAPD caper. He busted Chick instead: receiving stolen goods with a prior, ten felony arrests for the month-at least a double-digit tally.

Pure shit-straight into February.

Back to uniform, six days of directing traffic-Parker's idea, Detective Division personnel rotating to Patrol for a week a year. Alphabetically: as a "W" he stood at the rear of the pack. The late bird loses the worm-it rained all six of those days.

Floods on the job, a drought with the women.

Bud thumbed his address book. Lorene from the Silver Star, Jane from the Zimba Room, Nancy from the Orbit Lounge- late-breaking numbers. They had the look: late thirties, hungry- grateful for a younger guy who treated them nice and gave them a taste all men weren't shitheels. Lorene was heavyset-the mattress springs always banged the floor. Jane played opera records to set the mood-they sounded like cats fucking. Nancy was a lush, par for bar-prowl course. The jaded type-the type to break things off even quicker than he usually did.

"White, check this."

Bud looked up. Elmer Lentz held out the «Herald» front page.

The headline: "Police Beating Victims to File Suit."

Subheadings: "Grand Jury Ready to Hear Evidence," "Parker Vows Full LAPD Cooperation."

Lentz said, "This could be trouble."

Bud said, "No shit, Sherlock."

Preston Exley finished reading. "Edmund, all three versions are brilliant, but you should have gone to Parker immediately. Now, with all the publicity, your coming forth smacks of panic. Are you prepared to be an informant?"

Ed squared his glasses. "Yes."

"Are you prepared to be despised within the Department?"

"Yes, and I'm prepared for whatever displays of gratitude Parker has to offer."

Preston skimmed pages. "Interesting. Shifting most of the guilt to men with their pensions already secured is salutory, and this Officer White sounds a bit fearsome."

Ed got chills. "He is. Internal Affairs is interviewing me tomorrow, and I don't relish telling them about his stunt with the Mexican."

"Afraid of reprisals?"

"Not really."

"Don't ignore your fear, Edmund. That's weakness. White and his friend Stensland behaved with despicable disregard for departmental bylaws, and they're both obvious thugs. Are you prepared for your interview?"

"Yes."

"They'll be brutal."

"I know, Father."

"They'll stress your inability to keep order and the fact that you let those officers steal your keys."

Ed flushed. "It was getting chaotic, and fighting those men would have created more chaos."

"Don't raise your voice and don't justify yourseW. Not with me, not with the I.A. men. It makes you appear-"

A breaking voice. "Don't say 'weak,' Father. Don't draw any sort of parallel with Thomas. And don't assume that I can't handle this situation."

Preston picked up the phone. "I know you're capable of holding your own. But are you capable of seizing Bill Parker's gratitude before he displays it?"

"Father, you told me once that Thomas was your heir as a natural and I was your heir as an opportunist. What does that tell you?"

Preston smiled, dialed a number. "Bill? Hello, it's Preston Exley… Yes, fine, thank you… No, I wouldn't have called your personal line for that… No, Bill, it's about my son Edmund. He was on duty at Central Station Christmas Eve, and I think he has valuable information for you… Yes, tonight? Certainly, he'll be there… Yes, and my regards to Helen… Yes, goodbye, Bill."

Ed felt his heart slamming. Preston said, "Meet Chief Parker at the Pacific Dining Car tonight at eight. He'll arrange for a private room where you can talk."

"Which one of the depositions do I show him?"

Preston handed the paperwork back. "Opportunities like this don't come very often. I had the Atherton case, you had a little taste with Guadalcanal. Read the family scrapbook and «remember those precedents»."

"Yes, but which deposition?"

"You figure it out. And have a good meal at the Dining Car. The supper invitation is a good sign, and Bill doesn't like finicky eaters."