“Sergeant, was Hartshorn tall and gray-haired?”

Skakel laughed. “No. Short and bald as a beagle. What’s with the job? You got leads?”

“Lindenaur’s on the City end, and there’s no real leads yet. What was your take on Hartshorn?”

“He’s no killer, Upshaw. He’s rich, he’s got influence and he won’t give you the time of day. Besides, pansy jobs ain’t worth it, and Lindenaur was a punk. I say c’est la vie, let sleeping queers lie.”

Back to the City, kid gloves this time, nothing to spawn more lies and trouble. Danny drove to Variety International Pictures, hoping Gene Niles would spend a decent amount of time at the Leafy Glade Motel. With the Goines end stalemated, victims two and three were the hot stuff, and Lindenaur as a studio scribe/extortionist felt hotter than Wiltsie as a male whore.

Rival union factions were picketing by the front gate; Danny parked across the street, put an “Official Police Vehicle” board on the windshield, ducked his head and weaved through a maze of bodies waving banners. The gate guard was reading a scandal tabloid featuring a lurid column on his three killings—gory details leaked by a “reliable source” at the LA morgue. Danny scanned half a page while he got out his badge, the guard engrossed, chewing a cigar. The two cases were now connected in print—if only by the LA Tattler—and that meant the possibility of more ink, radio and television news, phony confessions, phony leads and scads of bullshit.

Danny rapped on the wall; the cigar chewer put down his paper and looked at the badge held up. “Yeah? Who you here for?”

“I want to talk to the people who worked with Duane Lindenaur.”

The guard didn’t flinch at the name; Lindenaur’s monicker hadn’t yet made the tabloid. He checked a sheet on a clipboard, said, “Set 23, the office next to the Tomahawk Massacre interior,” hit a button and pointed. The gate opened; Danny threaded his way down a long stretch of blacktop filled with costumed players. The door to Set 23 was wide open; just inside it, three Mexican men were wiping war paint off their faces. They gave Danny bored looks; he saw a door marked REWRITE, went over and knocked on it.

A voice called, “It’s open”; Danny walked in. A lanky young man in tweeds and horn rims was stuffing pages in a briefcase. He said, “Are you the guy replacing Duane? He hasn’t showed up in three days and the director needs additional dialogue quicksville.”

Danny went in fast. “Duane’s dead, his friend George Wiltsie too. Murdered.”

The young man dropped his briefcase; his hands twitched up and adjusted his glasses. “Mm-mm-murdered?”

“That’s right.”

“And y-y-you’re a policeman?”

“Deputy Sheriff. Did you know Lindenaur well?”

The youth picked up his briefcase and slumped into a chair. “N-no, not well. Just here at work, just superficially.”

“Did you see him outside the studio?”

“No.”

“Did you know George Wiltsie?”

“No. I knew he and Duane lived together, because Duane told me.”

Danny swallowed. “Were they lovers?”

“I wouldn’t dream of speculating on their relationship. All I know is that Duane was quiet, that he was a good rewrite man and that he worked cheap, which is a big plus at this slave labor camp.”

A footstep scraped outside the door. Danny turned and saw a shadow retreating. Looking out, he caught a back view of a man fast-walking over to a bank of cameras and lighting fixtures. He followed; the man stood there, hands in his pockets, the classic “I’ve got nothing to hide” routine.

Danny braced him, disappointed that he was young and midsized, no burn scars on his face, at best a conduit for second-hand dope. “What were you doing listening outside that door?”

The man was closer to a boy—skinny, acned, a high voice with a trace of a lisp. “I work here. I’m a set dresser.”

“So that gives you the right to eavesdrop on official police business?”

The kid primped his hair. Danny said, “I asked you a question.”

“No, that doesn’t give me—”

“Then why did you?”

“I heard you say Duaney and George were dead, and I knew them. Do you know—”

“No, I don’t know who killed them, or I wouldn’t be here. How well did you know them?”

The boy played with his pompadour. “I shared lunch with Duaney—Duane—and I knew George to say hi to when he picked Duane up.”

“I guess the three of you had a lot in common, right?”

“Yes.”

“Did you associate with Lindenaur and Wiltsie outside of here?”

“No.”

“But you talked, because the three of you had so goddamn much in common. Is that right?”

The boy eyed the floor, one foot drawing lazy figure eights. “Yes, sir.”

“Then you tell me about what they had going and who else they had going, because if anyone around here would know, you would. Isn’t that right?”

The boy braced himself against a spotlight, his back to Danny. “They’d been together for a long time, but they liked to party with other guys. Georgie was rough trade, and he mostly lived off Duane, but sometimes he turned tricks for this fancy escort service. I don’t know anything else, so can I please go now?”

Danny thought of his call to Firestone Station—Lindenaur meeting the man he blackmailed through a “fruit introduction service.” “No. What was the name of the escort service?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who else did Wiltsie and Lindenaur party with? Give me some names.”

“I don’t know and I don’t have any names!”

“Don’t whine. What about a tall, gray-haired man, middle-aged. Did either Lindenaur or Wiltsie mention a man like that?”

“No.”

“Is there a man working here who fits that description?”

“There’s a million men in LA who fit that description, so will you please—”

Danny clamped the boy’s wrist, saw what he was doing and let go. “Don’t raise your voice to me, just answer. Lindenaur, Wiltsie, a tall, gray-haired man.”

The kid turned and rubbed his wrist. “I don’t know of any men like that, but Duane liked older guys, and he told me he dug gray hair. Now are you satisfied?”

Danny couldn’t meet his stare. “Did Duane and George like jazz?”

“I don’t know, we never discussed music.”

“Did they ever talk about burglary or a man in his late twenties with burn scars on his face?”

“No.”

“Were either of them hipped on animals?”

“No, just other guys.”

Danny said, “Get out of here,” then moved himself, the kid still staring. The blacktop was deserted now, dusk coming on. He walked to the front gate; a voice from the guard hut stopped him. “Say, Officer. You got a minute?”

Danny halted. A bald man in a polo shirt and golf slacks stepped out and extended his hand. “I’m Herman Gerstein. I run this place.”

City turf. Danny gave Gerstein a shake. “My name’s Upshaw. I’m a Sheriff’s detective.”

Gerstein said, “I heard you were looking for the guys some script hack works with. That true?”

“Duane Lindenaur. He was murdered.”

“That’s too bad. I don’t like it when my people check out without telling me. What’s the matter, Upshaw? You ain’t laughing.”

“It wasn’t funny.”

Gerstein cleared his throat. “To each his own, and I don’t have to beg for laughs, I’ve got comedians for that. Before you go, I want to inform you of something. I’m cooperating with a grand jury investigation into Commie influence in Hollywood, and I don’t like the idea of extraneous cops asking questions around here. You dig? National security outranks a dead script hack.”

Danny threw out a tweak on general principles. “A dead queer script hack.”

Gerstein looked him over. “Now that really ain’t funny, because I would never let a known homo work at my shop under any conditions. Ever. Is that clear?”

“Vividly.”