Three nights ago, around 10:00, she’d been strolling Wursti and saw a tall man with beautiful silver hair walking back toward the garage at 2307, a “weaving drunk” on either side of him. No, she had not seen any of the three men before; no, no strange noises from the garage apartment followed; no, she didn’t know the woman who owned the front house; no, the men did not talk to each other, and she doubted she would be able to ID the silver-haired man if she saw him again.

Danny let the woman go, went back to his car, hunkered down to keep a fix on 2307. Instincts hit him hard:

Yes, the killer staked out the pad to see if cops showed up. Yes, he had the Griffith Park dump site already planned. Goines’ name never made the papers, he was simply a vagrant, the killer knew his murder spot wasn’t compromised by Goines’ publicity. The only known Goines associates who knew of Mad Marty’s demise were the jazzmen he had questioned, which eliminated jazzbos as suspects—with Goines ID’d by the law, no smart killer would bring future victims to the man’s apartment. Which meant that if no heat appeared in force on Tamarind Street, the killer might bring other victims here. Hold the lead safe from LAPD, stay staked out, pray the killer didn’t witness his or Bordoni’s break-in and today’s canvassing, sit tight and he just might waltz right into your life with number four on his arm.

Danny held, eyes on the house, rear-view adjusted to frame the driveway. Time stretched; a wrong-looking man strolled by, then two old ladies pushing shopping carts and a gaggle of boys wearing Hollywood High letter jackets. A siren whirred, getting closer; Danny thought of code three trouble down on the Boulevard.

Then everything went very fast.

An old lady opened the 2307 front house door; an unmarked prowler jammed into the driveway. Sergeant Gene Niles got out, looked across the street and saw him—a sitting duck in the car he’d had at Griffith Park yesterday morning. Niles started to head over; the old woman intercepted him, pointing toward the garage apartment. Niles stopped; the woman grabbed at his coat sleeves; Danny flailed for lies. Niles let himself be led down the driveway. Danny got bad heebie-jeebies—and drove to the Station to lay some cover.

Dietrich was standing by the squadroom entrance, wolfing a cigarette; Danny took his arm and steered him to the privacy of his own office. Dietrich went with it, swinging around as Danny shut the door. “Lieutenant Poulson just called me. Gene Niles just called him, because he caught a call from Martin Goines’ landlady. Blood and bloody clothes all over Goines’ apartment, a mile from Griffith Park. Our one and LAPD’s two were obviously snuffed there, you were seen staking the place out and rabbited. Why? Make it good so I don’t have to suspend you.”

Danny had his answer down pat. “A man from Lexington State called me at home this morning and told me he’d gotten a letter from Marty Goines, addressed to another patient. The return address was 2307 North Tamarind. I thought about that talk we had, greasing things with Poulson, us being cooperative even though Niles was pulling a snit. But I didn’t trust LAPD to canvass properly, so I did it myself. I was taking a breather in my car when Niles saw me.”

Dietrich picked up an ashtray and stubbed out his smoke. “And you didn’t call me? On a lead that hot?”

“I jumped the gun, sir. I’m sorry.”

Dietrich said, “I’m not sure I buy your story. Why didn’t you talk to the landlady before you canvassed? Poulson said Niles told him the woman was cherry—she was the one who discovered the mess.”

Danny shrugged, trying to belittle the question. “I knocked early on, but the old girl probably didn’t hear it.”

“Poulson said she sounded like an alert old dame. Danny, were you in the neighborhood knocking off a matinee?”

The question didn’t register. “What do you mean, a movie?”

“No, pussy. Your bimbo’s got a place near that doughnut stand where you heard the squeal yesterday, and Tamarind is near there. Were you shacking on County time?”

Dietrich’s tone had softened; Danny got his lies straight. “I canvassed, then I shacked. I was resting in my car when Niles showed up.”

Dietrich smiled/grimaced; the phone on his desk rang. He picked it up, said, “Yes, Norton, he’s here,” listened and added, “One question. Have you got jackets on the two men?”

A long stretch of silence. Danny fidgeted by the door; Karen Hiltscher nudged it open, dropped a sheaf of papers on the Captain’s desk and walked out, eyes lowered. Danny thought: don’t let the skipper tell her I’ve got a woman; don’t let her tell him she fielded the call from Lex. Dietrich said, “Hold on, Norton. I want to talk to him first,” placed a hand over the receiver and spoke to Danny. “There’s an ID on LAPD’s two bodies. They’re trash, so I’m telling you now: no interagency investigation, and you’ve got five more days on Goines before I yank you off. The Sun-Fax Market was held up this morning and if we don’t clear it by then, I want you on that. I’m letting you slide for not reporting Goines’ address, but I’m warning you: stay out of LAPD’s way. Tom Poulson is a close friend, we’ve stayed friends despite Mickey and Brenda, and I don’t want you fucking it up. Now here, Norton Layman wants to talk to you.”

Danny grabbed the phone. “Yeah, Doc.”

“It’s your friendly City pipeline. Got a pencil?”

Danny fished pad and pen from his pockets. “Shoot.”

“The taller man is George William Wiltsie, DOB 9/14/13. Two male prostitution arrests, booted out of the Navy in ‘43 for moral turpitude. The other man is address-verified as Wiltsie’s known associate, maybe his brunser. Duane no middle name Lindenaur, DOB 12/5/16. One arrest for extortion—June, 1941. The beef did not go to court—the complainant dropped charges. There’s no employment listed for Wiltsie; Lindenaur worked as a dialogue rewrite man at Variety International Pictures. Both men lived at 11768 Ventura Boulevard, the Leafy Glade Motel. LAPD is rolling there now, so stay clear. Does this make you happy?”

Danny counted lies. “I don’t know, Doc.”

From his cubicle, Danny called R&I and the DMV and got complete records readouts on victims two and three. George Wiltsie was arrested for soliciting indecent acts at cocktail lounges in ‘40 and ‘41; the DA dropped charges both times for lack of evidence, and the man possessed a lengthy list of traffic violations. Duane Lindenaur was DMV-clean, and had only the one dropped extortion beef Doc Layman mentioned. Danny had the R&I clerk break down the victims’ arrests by location; Wiltsie’s rousts were in City jurisdiction, Lindenaur’s was in the southeastern part of the County patrolled by Firestone Division. A request for a check of Lindenaur’s package got him the arresting officer’s name—Sergeant Frank Skakel.

Danny called Sheriff’s Personnel and learned that Skakel was still working Firestone swingwatch. He buzzed him there, got the switchboard and was put through to the squadroom.

“Skakel. Speak.”

“Sergeant, this is Deputy Upshaw, West Hollywood.”

“Yeah, Deputy.”

“I’m working a homicide tied in to two City 187’s, and you arrested one of the victims back in ‘41. Duane Lindenaur. Do you remember him?”

Skakel said, “Yeah. He was working a queer squeeze on a rich lawyer named Hartshorn. I always remember the money jobs. Lindenaur got bumped, huh?”

“Yes. Do you remember the case?”

“Pretty well. The complainant’s name was Charles Hartshorn. He liked boys, but he was married and he had a daughter he doted on. Lindenaur met Hartshorn through some fruit introduction service, perved with him and threatened to snitch Hartshorn’s queerness to the daughter. Hartshorn called us in, we rousted Lindenaur, then Hartshorn got cold feet about testifying in court and dropped the charges.”