Buzz got out his notepad and wrote a memo to Mal and Ellis Loew—abbreviated skinny from three triggermen moonlighting as picket goons. Their consensus: UAES still biding its time, the Teamster rank and file on fire to whomp some ass, the only new wrinkle a suspicious-looking van parked on Gower, a man with a movie camera in the back. The man, a studious bird with Trotsky glasses, was seen talking to Norm Kostenz, the UAES picket boss. Conclusion: UAES wanted the Teamsters to rumble, so they could capture the ass-whomping on film.

His skate work done, Buzz listened to Mickey rant and checked his real notes—the grand jury and shrink files read over and put together with a few records prowls and a brief talk with Jack Shortell’s partner at the San Dimas Substation. Shortell would be returning from Montana tomorrow; he could hit him for a real rundown on Upshaw’s case then. The partner said that Jack said Danny seemed to think the killings derived from the time of the Sleepy Lagoon murder and the SLDC—it was the last thing the kid talked up before LAPD grabbed him. That in mind, Buzz matched the theory to his file facts.

He got:

Danny told him Reynolds Loftis fit his killing suspect’s description—and in general—”he fits.” Charles Hartshorn, a recent suicide, was rousted with Loftis at a local fruit bar in ‘44.

Two identical names and an R&I and DMV check got him Augie Duarte, snuff victim number four, and his cousin, SLDC/UAES hotshot Juan Duarte, currently working at Variety International Pictures—on a set next to the room where victim number three, Duane Lindenaur, worked as a rewrite man. SLDC Lawyer Hartshorn was blackmailed by Lindenaur years ago—a check on the crime report led him to an LASD Sergeant named Skakel, who had also talked to Danny Upshaw. Skakel told him that Lindenaur met Hartshorn at a party thrown by fag impresario Felix Gordean, the man Danny said the killer had a fix on.

The first victim, Marty Goines, died of a heroin overjolt. Loftis’ fiancée Claire De Haven was a skin-popper; she took Dr. Terry Lux’s cure three times. Terry said Loftis copped H for her.

From Mal’s report on the Sammy Benavides/Mondo Lopez/Juan Duarte questioning:

Benavides shouted something about Chaz Minear, Loftis’ fag squeeze, buying boys at a “puto escort service”—Gordean’s?

Also on Minear: in his psych file, Chaz justified snitching Loftis to HUAC by pointing to a third man in a love triangle—”If you knew who he was, you’d understand why I did it.”

Two strange-o deals:

The ‘42 to ‘44 pages were missing from Loftis’ psych file and Doc Lesnick couldn’t be found. At the three Mexes’ questioning, one of the guys muttered an aside—the SLDC got letters tapping a “big white man” for the Sleepy Lagoon murder.

Strange-o stuff aside, all circumstantial—but too solid to be coincidence.

The phone rang, cutting through Mickey’s tirade on Commies. Buzz picked it up; Johnny Stomp watched him talk.

“Yeah. Cap, that you?”

“It’s me, Turner, my lad.”

“You sound happy, boss.”

“I just got a ninety-day continuance, so I am happy. Did you do your homework?”

Stompanato was still staring. Buzz said, “Sure did. Circumstantial but tight. You talk to Loftis?”

“Meet me at 463 Canon Drive in an hour. We’ve got him as a friendly witness.”

“No shit?”

“No shit.”

Buzz hung up. Johnny Stomp winked at him and turned back to Mickey.

Headlights bounced over the street, caught his windshield and went off. Mal heard a car door slamming and tapped his highbeams; Buzz walked over and said, “You do your homework?”

“Yeah. Like you said, circumstantial. But it’s there.”

“How’d you fix this up, Cap?”

Mal held back on the De Haven deal. “Danny wasn’t too subtle hitting up Claire for Loftis’ whereabouts on the killing dates, so she faked a meeting diary—Loftis alibied for the three nights. She says there were meetings, and he was there, but they were planning seditious stuff—that’s why she sugar-coated the damn thing. She says Loftis is clean.”

“You believe it?”

“Maybe, but my gut tells me they’re connected to the whole deal. This afternoon I checked Loftis’ bank records going back to ‘40. Three times in the spring and summer of ‘44 he made cash withdrawals of ten grand. Last week he made another one. Interesting?”

Buzz whistled. “From old Reynolds’ missing-file time. It’s gotta be blackmail, there’s blackmail all over this mess. You wanna play him white hat-black hat?”

Mal got out of the car. “You be the bad guy. I’ll get De Haven out of the way, and we’ll work him.”

They walked up to the door and rang the bell. Claire De Haven answered; Mal said, “You go somewhere for a couple of hours.”

Claire looked at Buzz, lingering on his ratty sharkskin and heater. “You mustn’t touch him.”

Mal hooked a thumb over his back. “Go somewhere.”

“No thank yous for what I did?”

Mal caught Buzz catching it. “Go somewhere, Claire.”

The Red Queen brushed past them out the door; she gave Buzz a wide berth. Mal whispered, “Hand signals. Three fingers on my tie means hit him.”

“You got the stomach for this?”

“Yes. You?”

“One for the kid, boss.”

Mal said, “I still don’t make you for the sentimental gesture type.”

“I guess old dogs can learn. What just happened with you and the princess?”

“Nothing.”

“Sure, boss.”

Mal heard coughing in the living room; Buzz said, “I’ll kickstart him.” A voice called, “Gentlemen, can we get this over with?”

Buzz walked in first, whistling at the furnishings; Mal followed, taking a long look at Loftis. The man was tall and gray per Upshaw’s suspect description; he was dashingly handsome at fifty or so and his whole manner was would-be slick—a costume of tweed slacks and cardigan sweater, a sprawl on the divan, one leg hooked over the other at the knee.

Mal sat next to him; Buzz thunked a chair down a hard breath away. “You and that honey Claire are gettin’ married, huh?”

Loftis said, “Yes, we are.”

Buzz smiled, soft and homespun. “That’s sweet. She gonna let you pork boys on the side?”

Loftis sighed. “I don’t have to answer that question.”

“The fuck you don’t. You answer it, you answer it now.”

Mal came in. “Mr. Loftis is right, Sergeant. That question is not germane. Mr. Loftis, where were you on the nights of January first, fourth and the fourteenth of this year?”

“I was here, at meetings of the UAES Executive Committee.”

“And what was discussed at those meetings?”

“Claire said I didn’t have to discuss that with you.”

Buzz snickered. “You take orders from a woman?”

“Claire is no ordinary woman.”

“She sure ain’t. A rich bitch Commie that shacks with a fruitfly sure ain’t everyday stuff to me.”

Loftis sighed again. “Claire told me this would be ugly, and she was correct. She also told me your sole purpose was to convince yourselves that I didn’t kill anyone, and that I did not have to discuss the UAES business that was transacted on those three nights.”

Mal knew Meeks would figure out the Claire deal before too long; he joined his partner on the black hat side. “Loftis, I don’t think you did kill anybody. But I think you’re in deep on some other things, and I’m not talking politics. We want the killer, and you’re going to help us get him.”

Loftis licked his lips and knotted his fingers together; Mal touched his tie bar: go in full. Buzz said, “What’s your blood type?”

Loftis said, “O positive.”

“That’s the killer’s blood type, boss. You know that?”

“It’s the most common blood type among white people, and your friend just said I’m no longer a suspect.”

“My friend’s a soft touch. You know a trombone man named Marty Goines?”

“No.”

“Duane Lindenaur?”