He pushed it open and saw a little den all done up cozy, more bookshelves, chairs arranged around a leather ottoman, another desk with another cluttered blotter. He checked the clutter— mimeographed movie scripts with hand scrawl in the margins— opened drawers and found stacks of Claire De Haven stationery, envelopes, rolls of stamps and an old leather wallet. Flipping through the sleeves, he saw expired Reynolds Loftis ID: library card, membership cards to Pinko organizations, a ‘36 California driver’s license with a tag stuck to the back side, Emergency Medical Data—allergic to penicillin, minor recurring arthritis, O+ blood.

HIM?

Danny closed the drawers, unlocked the bathroom door, wiped a towel across his face and slow-walked back to the screening room. The lights were on, the screen was blank and Claire was sitting on the couch. She said, “I didn’t think a tough boy like you would be so squeamish.”

Danny sat beside her, their legs brushing. Claire pulled away, then leaned forward. Danny thought: she knows, she can’t know. He said, “I’m not much of an aesthete.”

Claire put a warm hand to his face; her face was cold. “Really? All my friends in the New York Party were mad for New Drama and Kabuki and the like. Didn’t the movie remind you of Cocteau, only with more of a sense of humor?”

He didn’t know who Cocteau was. “Cocteau never jazzed me. Neither did Salvador Dali or any of those guys. I’m just a square from Long Island.”

Claire’s hand kept stroking. It was warm, but the to-die-for softness of last night was all gone. “I used to summer in Easthampton when I was a girl. It was lovely.”

Danny laughed, glad he’d read Considine’s tourist brochure. “Huntington wasn’t exactly Easthampton, sweetie.”

Claire cringed at the endearment, started to let her hand go, then made with more caresses. Danny said, “Who filmed that movie?”

“A brilliant man named Paul Doinelle.”

“Just for friends to see?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because it’s smut. You can’t release films like that. It’s against the law.”

“You say that so vehemently, like you care about a bourgeois law that abridges artistic freedom.”

“It was ugly. I was just wondering what kind of man would enjoy something like that.”

“Why do you say ‘man’? I’m a woman, and I appreciate art of that nature. You’re strictured in your views, Ted. It’s a bad trait for people in our cause to have. And I know that film aroused you.”

“That’s not true.”

Claire laughed. “Don’t be so evasive. Tell me what you want. Tell me what you want to do with me.”

She was going to fuck him just to get what he knew, which meant she knew, which meant—

Danny made Claire a blank frame and kissed her neck and cheeks; she sighed—phony—sounding just like a Club Largo girl pretending stripping was ecstasy. She touched his back and chest and shoulders—hands kneading—it felt like she was trying to restrain herself from gouging him. He tried to kiss her lips, but her mouth stayed crimped; she reached between his legs. He was frozen and shriveled there, and her hand made it worse.

Danny felt his whole body choking him. Claire took her hands away, reached behind her back and removed her sweater and bra in one movement. Her breasts were freckled—spots that looked cancerous—the left one was bigger and hung strange and the nipples were dark and flat and surrounded by crinkled skin. Danny thought of traitors and Mexicans sucking them; Claire whispered, “Here, babe,” a lullaby to mother him into telling what he knew, who he knew, what he lied. She fondled her breasts toward his face; he shut his eyes and couldn’t; thought of boys and Tim and HIM and couldn’t—

Claire said, “Ladies’ man? Oh Teddy, how were you ever able to pull that charade off?” Danny shoved her away, left the house slamming doors and drove home thinking: SHE CANNOT KNOW WHO I AM. Inside, he went straight for his copy of the grand jury package, prowled pages to prove it for sure, saw “Juan Duarte— UAES brain trust, extra actor/stagehand at Variety Intl Picts” on a personnel sheet, snapped to Augie Duarte choking on his cock on a morgue slab, snapped to the three Mexes on the Tomahawk Massacre set the day he questioned Duane Lindenaur’s KAs, snapped on Norm Kostenz taking his picture after the picket line brawl. Snap, snap, snap, snap to two final snaps: the Mex at the morgue who eyed him funny was a Mex actor on the movie set, he had to be an Augie Duarte relative, Juan Duarte the spic Commie actor/stagehand. The crossout on the meeting ledger had to be his name, which meant that he saw Kostenz’ picture and told Loftis and Claire that Ted Krugman was a police detective working on Augie’s snuff.

Which meant that the ledger was a setup alibi.

Which meant that the movie was a device to test his reactions and find out what he knew.

Which meant that the Red Bitch was trying to do to him what Mal Considine set him up to do to her.

WHICH MEANT THAT THEY KNEW WHO HE WAS.

Danny went for the shelf over the refrigerator, the place were he stashed his Deputy D. Upshaw persona. He picked up his badge and handcuffs and held them to himself; he unhoistered his .45 revolver and aimed it at the world.

Chief of Detectives Thad Green nodded first to Mal, then to Dudley Smith. “Gentlemen, I wouldn’t have called you in this early in the morning if it wasn’t urgent. What I’m going to tell you has not been leaked yet, and it will remain that way.”

Mal looked at his LAPD mentor. The man, rarely grave, was coming on almost funereal. “What is it, sir?”

Green lit a cigarette. “The rain caused some mudslides up in the hills. About an hour ago, a body was found on the access road going up to the Hollywood Sign. Sergeant Eugene Niles, Hollywood Squad. Buried, shot in the face. I called Nort Layman in for a quick one, and he took two .38’s out of the cranial vault. They were fired from an Iver-Johnson Police Special, which you know is standard LAPD/LASD issue. Niles was last seen day before yesterday at Hollywood Station, where he got into a fistfight with your grand jury chum Deputy Daniel Upshaw. You men have been working with Upshaw, and I called you in for your conclusions. Mal, you first.”

Mal made himself swallow his shock, think, then speak. “Sir, I don’t think Upshaw is capable of killing a man. I reprimanded him on Niles night before last, and he took it like a good cop. He seemed relieved that Niles was off his Homicide detail, and we all know that Niles was in up to here on Brenda Allen. I’ve heard he ran bag for Jack Dragna, and I’d look to Jack and Mickey before I accused a brother officer.”

Green nodded. “Lieutenant Smith.”

Dudley said, “Sir, I disagree with Captain Considine. Sergeant Mike Breuning, who’s also working that Homicide detail with Upshaw, told me that Niles was afraid of the lad and that he was convinced that Upshaw had committed a break-in in LAPD territory in order to get evidence. Niles told Sergeant Breuning that Upshaw lied about how he came to get word of the second and third victims, and that he was going to try to accrue criminal charges against him. Moreover, Niles was convinced that Upshaw had a very strange fixation on these deviant killings he’s so concerned with, and Niles calling Upshaw a ‘queer’ was what precipitated their fight. An informant of mine told me that Upshaw was seen threatening a known queer pimp named Felix Gordean, a man who is known to heavily pay off Sheriff’s Central Vice. Gordean told my man that Upshaw is crazy, obsessed with some sort of homo conspiracy, and that he made extortion demands on him—threatening to go to the newspapers unless he gave him special information—information that Gordean asserts does not even exist.”

Mal took the indictment in. “Who’s your informant, Dudley? And why do you and Breuning care so much about Upshaw?”