Duarte spoke rapidamente. “He was a punk, a lame-o. Reynolds started bringing him around around the time the SLDC was hot. I forget the kid’s name, but he was a kid, eighteen, nineteen, in there. He had his face bandaged up. He was in a fire and he got burned bad. When he got his burns all healed up and the bandages and gauze and shit came off, all the girls in the Committee thought he was real cute. He looked just like Reynolds, but even handsomer.”
The new facts coming together went tap, tap, tap, knocks on a door that was still a long way from opening. A Loftis burn-faced brother put the actor back in contention for HIM, but contradicted his instinct that the killer drew sex inspiration from the youth’s disfigurement; it played into Wolverine Prowler and Burn Face as one man and tapped the possibility that he was a killing accomplice—one way to explain the new welter of age contradictions. Danny said, “Tell me about the kid. Why did you call him a punk?”
Duarte said, “He was always sucking up to the Mexican guys. He told this fish story about how a big white man killed José Diaz, like we were supposed to like him because he said the killer wasn’t Mexican. Everybody knew the killer was Mexican—the cops just railroaded the wrong Mexicans. He told this crazy story about seeing the killing, but he didn’t have no real details, and when guys pressed him, he clammed up. The SLDC got some anonymous letters saying a white guy did it, and you could tell the kid brother sent them—it was crazy-man stuff. The kid said he was running from the killer, and once I said, ‘Pendejo, if the killer’s looking for you, what the fuck you doing coming to these rallies where he could grab your crazy ass?’ The kid said he had special protection, but wouldn’t tell me no more. Like I said, he was a lame-o. If he wasn’t Reynolds’ brother, nobody woulda tolerated him at all.”
Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. Danny said, “What happened to him?”
Duarte shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t see him since the SLDC, and I don’t think nobody else has either. Reynolds don’t talk about him. It’s strange. I don’t think I’ve heard Chaz or Claire or Reynolds talk about him in years.”
“What about Benavides and Lopez? Where are they now?”
“On location with some other puto cowboy turkey. You think this stuff about Reynolds’ brother has got something to do with Augie?”
Danny brainstormed off the question. Reynolds Loftis’ brother was the burned-face burglar boy, Marty Goines’ burglar accomplice, very possibly the Bunker Hill prowler/wolverine lover. The Bunker Hill B&Es stopped August 1, 1942; the next night, José Diaz was killed at the Sleepy Lagoon, three miles or so southeast of the Hill. The kid brother alleged that he witnessed a “big white man” killing José Diaz.
Tap, tap, tap. Jump, jump, jump.
Dudley Smith was a big white man with a bone-deep cruel streak. He joined the grand jury team out of a desire to keep incriminating Sleepy Lagoon testimony kiboshed, thinking that with access to witnesses and case paperwork, he could get the jump on damaging evidence about to come out. Hartshorn’s zoot stick call to Mike Breuning scared him; he and Breuning or one of them alone drove over from Wilshire Station to talk to the man; Hartshorn got suspicious. Either premeditatedly or on the spur of the moment, Smith and/or Breuning killed him, faking a suicide. Tap, tap, tap-thunder loud—with the door still closed on the most important question: How did Smith killing José Diaz, his attempts to keep possible evidence quashed and his killing Charles Hartshorn connect to the Goines/Wiltsie/Lindenaur/Duarte murders? And why did Smith kill Diaz?
Danny looked around at set doors spilling glimpses: the wild west, jungle swampland, trees in a forest. He said, “Vaya con Dios,” left Duarte sitting there and drove home to hit the grand jury file, thinking he’d finally made detective in the eyes of Maslick and Vollmer. He walked in his building, light as air; he pushed the elevator button and heard footsteps behind him. Turning, he saw two big men with guns drawn. He reached for his own gun, but a big fist holding a set of big brass knucks hit him first.
He came awake handcuffed to a chair. His head was woozy, his wrists were numb and his tongue felt huge. His eyes homed in on an interrogation cubicle, three fuzzy men seated around a table, a big black revolver lying square in the middle. A voice said, “.38’s are standard issue for your Department, Upshaw. Why do you carry a .45?”
Danny blinked and coughed up a bloody lunger; he blinked again and recognized the voice man: Thad Green, LAPD Chief of Detectives. The two men flanking Green fell into focus; they were the biggest plainclothes cops he’d ever seen.
“I asked you a question, Deputy.”
Danny tried to remember the last time he had a drink, came up with Chinatown and knew he couldn’t have gone crazy while fried on bonded. He coughed dry and said, “I sold it when I made detective.”
Green lit a cigarette. “That’s an interdepartmental offense. Do you consider yourself above the law?”
“No!”
“Your friend Karen Hiltscher says otherwise. She says you’ve manipulated her for special favors ever since you made detective. She told Sergeant Eugene Niles you broke into 2307 Tamarind and knew that two murder victims had recently been killed there. She told Sergeant Niles that your story about a girlfriend near the doughnut stand on Franklin and Western is a lie, that she phoned you the information off the City air. Niles was going to inform on you, Deputy. Did you know that?”
Danny’s head woozed. He swallowed blood; he recognized the man to Green’s left as the knuck wielder. “Yeah. Yes, I knew.”
Green said, “Who’d you sell your .38 to?”
“A guy in a bar.”
“That’s a misdemeanor, Deputy. A criminal charge. You really don’t care much for the law, do you?”
“Yes, yes, I care! I’m a policeman! Goddamn it, what is this!”
The knuck man said, “You were seen arguing with a known homo procurer named Felix Gordean. Are you on his payroll?”
“No!”
“Mickey Cohen’s payroll?”
“No!”
Green took over. “You were given command of a Homicide team, a carrot for your grand jury work. Sergeant Niles and Sergeant Mike Breuning found it very strange that a smart young officer would be so concerned about a string of queer slashes. Would you like to tell us why?”
“No! What the fuck is this! I B&E’d Tamarind! What do you fucking want from me!”
The third cop, a huge bodybuilder type, said, “Why did you and Niles trade blows?”
“He was ditzing me with Tamarind Street, threatening to rat me.”
“So that made you mad?”
“Yes.”
“Fighting mad?”
“Yes!”
Green said, “We heard a different version, Deputy. We heard Niles called you a queer.”
Danny froze, reached for a comeback and kept freezing. He thought of ratting Dudley and kiboshed it—they’d never believe him—yet. “If Niles said that, I didn’t hear it.”
The knuck cop laughed. “Strike a nerve, Sonny?”
“Fuck you!”
The weightlifter cop backhanded him; Danny spat in his face. Green yelled, “No!”
The knuck man put his arms around weightlifter and held him back; Green chained another cigarette, butt to tip. Danny gasped, “Tell me what this is all about.”
Green waved the strongarms to the back of the cubicle, dragged on his smoke and stubbed it out. “Where were you night before last between 2:00 and 7:00 A.M.?”
“I was at home in bed. Asleep.”
“Alone, Deputy?”
“Yes.”
“Deputy, during that time Sergeant Gene Niles was shot and killed, then buried in the Hollywood Hills. Did you do it?”
“No!”
“Tell us who did.”
“Jack! Mickey! Niles was fucking rogue!”
The knuck cop stepped forward; the weightlifter cop grabbed him, mumbling, “Spit on my Hathaway shirt you queer-loving hump. Gene Niles was my pal, my good buddy from the army, you queer lover.”