White Jazz Page 4

  Pete stretched. "You think Diskant's got the smarts to make this for an unmarked?"

  La Verne opened her curtains, stripped to peignoir and garters. "No, he's only got one thing on his mind."

  "You're right, 'cause he's a pig for it. I say one hour or less."

  "Twenty says fifteen minutes."

  "You're on."

  We settled in, eyes on that window. Lull time, party noise: show tunes, voices. Bingo-a tan Ford. Pete said, "Forty-one minutes."

  I slid him twenty. Diskant walked up, hit the door, buzzed. La Verne, window framed: bumps and grinds.

  Pete howled.

  Diskant walked in.

  Ten minutes ticking by slow.., lights off at La Verne's love shack. Hold for the photo man's signal: flashbulb pops out that front window.

  Fifteen minutes ... twenty... twenty-five--a Sheriff's unit doubleparking.

  Pete nudged me. "Fuck. That party. 116.84 California Penal Code, Unlawfully Loud Assembly. _Fuck_."

  Two deputies walking. Nightstick raps on the party-pad window.

  No response.

  "Klein, this is not fucking good."

  _Rap rap rap_--La Verne's front window. Flashbulb pops--the bedroom window--big-time-bad-news improvisation.

  Screams--our Commie hooker.

  The deputies kicked the foyer door down--I chased the fuckers, badge out--

  Across the lawn, up the steps. Topsy-turvy glimpses: the photo man dropping out a window sans camera. Through the lobby--party kids mingling--La Verne's door snapped clean. I pushed through, punks tossing drinks in the face.

  "Police! Police officer!"

  I jumped the doorway dripping Scotch--a deputy caught me. My badge in his face: "Intelligence Division! LAPD!"

  The dipshit just gawked me. Bedroom shrieks--

  I ran in--

  Diskant and La Verne floor-tumbling--naked, flailing, gouging. A camera on the bed; a dumbfuck shouting: "Hey! You two stop that! We're the Sheriff's!"

  Pete ran in--Dumbfuck grinned familiar-old-deputy-acquaintance recognition. Fast Pete: he hustled the clown out quicksville. La Verne vs. the pinko: kicks, sissy punches.

  The camera on the bed: grab it, pop the film out, seal it. Hit the button--flashbulb light in Diskant's eyes.

  One blind Commie--La Verne tore free. I kicked him and punched him--he yelped, blinked and focused--ON THE FILM.

  Shakedown:

  "This was supposed to be some kind of setup, but those policemen broke it up. You were heading for the scandal sheets, something like 'Red Politician Blah Blah Blah.' You come across and that won't happen, because I sure would hate for your wife to see this film. Now, are you sure you want to be a city councilman?"

  Sobs.

  Brass knucks on. "Are you sure?"

  More sobs.

  Kidney shots--my knucks tore flab.

  "_Are you sure?_"

  Beet-red bawling: "Please don't hurt me!"

  Two more shots--Diskant belched foam.

  "You drop out tomorrow. Now say yes, because I don't like this."

  "Y-yes p-p-p--"

  Fucked-up shitty stuff--I hit the living room quashing shakes. No cops, La Verne draped in a sheet.

  Pete, dangling bug mikes: "I took care of the deputies, and Van Meter called on your two-way. You're supposed to meet Exley at the Bureau right now."

  o o o

  Downtown. Exley at his desk.

  I pulled a chair up, slid him the film. "He's pulling out, so we won't have to go to _Hush-Hush_."

  "Did you enjoy the work?"

  "Did you enjoy shooting those niggers?"

  "The public has no idea what justice costs the men who perform it."

  "Which means?"

  "Which means thank you."

  "Which means I have a favor coming."

  "You've been given one already, but ask anyway."

  "The fur robbery. Maybe it's insurance fraud, maybe it's not. Either way, I want to work cases."

  "No, I told you it's Dudley Smith's assignment."

  "Yeah, you and Dud are such good buddies. And what's with this 'already' favor?"

  "Besides no reprimand or interdepartmental charges on Sanderline Johnson?"

  "Chief, come on."

  "I destroyed the autopsy report on Johnson. The coroner noted a non sequitur bruise with imbedded paint fragments on his forehead, as if he banged his head against a windowsill before he jumped. I'm not saying that you're culpable; but other people, notably Welles Noonan, might. I had the file destroyed. And I have a case for you. I'm detaching you from Ad Vice immediately to start working on it."

  Weak knees: "What case?"

  "The Kafesjian burglary. I read the Wilshire Squad occurrence report, and I've decided I want a major investigation. I'm fully aware of the family's LAPD history, and I don't care what Captain Wilhite wants. You and Sergeant Stemmons are detached as of now. Shake the family, shake their known associates. J.C. employs a runner named Abe Voldrich, so lean on him while you're at it. I want a full forensic and the files checked for similar B&Es. Start tomorrow--with a show of force."

  I stood up. "This is fucking insane. Lean on our sanctioned Southside dope kingpin when the U.S. Attorney just might be planning a rackets probe down there. Some pervo kills two dogs and jacks off on some-"

  Exley, standing/crowding: "Do it. Detach canvassing officers from Wilshire Patrol and bring in the Crime Lab. Stemmons lacks field experience, but use him anyway. Show of force. And don't make me regret the favors I've done you."

  CHAPTER SIX

  SHOW OF FORCE.

  8:00 A.M., 1684 South Tremaine. Personnel: lab crew, print team, four bluesuits.

  The blues deployed: house-to-house witness checks, trashcan checks. Traffic cops standing by to shoo the press off.

  Show of force--Exley's wild hair up the ass.

  Show of force-short-shrift it.

  A compromise with Dan Wilhite--one edgy phone call. I said Exley pure had me; he called the job crazy--J.C. and the Department: twenty years of two-way profit. I owed Dan; he owed me--favors backlogged. Wilhite, scared: "I retire in three months. My dealings with the family won't stand up to outside-agency scrutiny. Dave... can you ... play it easy?"

  I said, "My ass first, yours second."

  He said, "I'll call J.C. and jerk his leash."

  8:04--showtirne.

  Black & whites, a lab van. Patrolmen, tech men. Gawkers galore, little kids.

  The driveway--I walked the lab guys back. Ray Pinker: "I called Animal Control. They told me they got no dead dog reports from this address. You think the people planted them in some pet cemetery?"

  Garbage day--trashcans lined up in the alley. "Maybe, but check those cans behind the back fence. I don't think Old Man Kafesjian's so sentimental."

  "I heard he was a real sweetheart. We find the dogs, then what?"

  "Take tissue samples for a make on what they were poisoned with. If they're still chewing on washcloths, get me a make on the chemical--it smelled like chloroform. I need ten minutes to talk up J.C., then I want you to come inside and bag fibers in the kitchen, living room and dining room. Send the print guys in then, and tell them just the downstairs--I don't think our burglar went upstairs. He jerked off on some pedal pushers, so if Pops didn't throw them out you can test the semen for blood type."

  "Jesus."

  "Yeah, Jesus. Listen, if he did dump them, they're probably in those garbage cans. Pastel-colored pedal pushers ripped at the crotch, not everyday stuff. And Ray? I want a nice fat summary report on all this."

  "Don't shit a shitter. You want me to pad it, say it."

  "Pad it. I don't know what Exley wants, so let's give him something to chew on."

  Madge at the back door, looking out. Heavy makeup-Pan-Cake over bruises.

  Ray nudged me. "She doesn't look Armenian."

  "She's not, and their kids don't look it either. Ray--"

  "Yeah, I'll pad it."

  Back to the street--rubberneckers
swarming. Junior and Tommy K. locking eyes.

  Tommy, porch loafer: bongo shirt, pegger pants, sax.

  Junior sporting his new look: whipped dog with a mean streak.

  I braced him--avuncular. "Come on, don't let that guy bother you."

  "It's those looks of his. Like he knows something I don't."

  "Forget about it."

  "You didn't have to kowtow to him."

  "I didn't disobey my CO."

  "Dave . . ."

  "Dave nothing. Your father's an inspector, he got you the Bureau, and my Ad Vice command was part of the deal. It's a game. You owe your father, I owe your father, I owe Dan Wilhite. We both owe the Department, so we have to play things like Exley's off the deep end on this deal. Do you understand?"

  "I understand. But it's your game, so just don't tell me it's right."

  Slap his fucking face--no--don't. "You pull that idealistic shit on me and I'll hand your father a fitness report that will bounce you back to a teaching job in record goddamn time. _My game got you where you are_. You play along or you see 'ineffectual command presence,' 'overly volatile' and 'poor composure in stress situations' on Daddy's desk tonight. You call it, Sergeant."

  Punk bravado: "_I'm playing_. I called the Pawnshop Detail and gave them a description of the silverware, and I got a list of Kafesjian's drycleaning shops. Three for you, three for me, the usual questions?"

  "Good, but let's see what the patrolmen turn first. Then, after you hit your three, go downtown and check the Central burglary files and Sheriff's files for 459s with similar MOs. You turn some, great. If not, check homicide unsolveds--maybe this clown's a goddamn killer."

  A stink, fly swarms--lab men hauled the dogs out, dripping garbage.

  "I guess you wouldn't tell me these things if you didn't care."

  "That's right."

  "You'll see, Dave. I'll prove myself on this one."

  Tommy K. honked his sax--spectators clapped. Tommy bowed and pumped his crotch.

  "Hey, Lieutenant! You come and talk to me!"

  J.C. on the porch, holding a tray out. "Hey! We have an eye opener!"

  I walked up. Bottled beer--Tommy grabbed one and guzzled. Check his arms: skin-pop tracks, swastika tattoos.

  J.C. smiled. "Don't tell me too early for you."

  Tommy belched. "Schlitz, Breakfast of Champions."

  "Five minutes, Mr. Kafesjian. Just a few questions."

  "I say all right, Captain Dan said you okay, this thing is not your idea. You follow me. Tommy, you go offer the other men Breakfast of Champions."

  Tommy dipped the tray a Ia carhop. J.C. bowed, follow-me style. I followed him into the den: pine walls, gun racks. Check the parlor-- print men, carhop Tommy hawking beer.

  J.C. shut the door. "Dan told me you just going to go through the motions."

  "Not quite. This is Ed Exley's case, and his rules are different than ours."

  "We do business, your people and mine. He knows that."

  "Yeah, and he's stretching the rules this time. He's the Chief of Detectives, and Chief Parker lets him do what he wants. I'll try to go easy, but you'll have to play along."

  J.C.: greasy and ugly. Face scratches--his own daughter clawed him. "Why? Exley, he's crazy?"

  "I don't know why, which is a damn good question. Exley wants the major-case treatment on this one, and he's a better goddamn detective than I am. I can only bullshit him so far."

  J.C. shrugged. "Hey, you smart, you got more juice. You a lawyer, you tight with Mickey Cohen."

  "No. I fix things, Exley runs things. You want smart? Exley's the best detective the LAPD's ever seen. Come on, help me. You don't want regular cops nosing around, I understand that. But some piece-of-shit burglar breaks in here and rips up-"

  "I clean my own house! Tommy and me, we find this guy!"

  Easy now: "No. We find him, then maybe Dan Wilhite gives you a shot. No trouble, nice and legal."

  Head jerks no-no. "Dan says you got questions. You ask, I answer. I play ball."

  "No you'll cooperate, no you won't?"

  "I cooperate."

  Notebook out. "Who did it? Any ideas?"

  "No"--deadpan--no read.

  "Enemies. Give me some names."

  "We got no enemies."

  "Come on, you sell narcotics."

  "Don't say that word in my home!"

  EASY NOW: "Let's call it business. Business rivals who don't like you."

  Fist shakes no-no. "You make the rules, we play right. We do business fair and square so we don't make no enemies."

  "Then let's try this. You're what we call a suborned informant. People like that make enemies. Think about it and give me some names."

  "Fancy words for snitch and fink and stool pigeon."

  "Names, Mr. Kafesjian."

  "Men in prison can't break into nice family houses. I got no names for you."

  "Then let's talk about Tommy and Lucille's enemies."

  "No enemies, my kids."

  "Think. This guy breaks in, breaks phonograph records and mutilates your daughter's clothing. Did those records belong to Tommy?"

  "Yes, Tommy's long-play record albums."

  "Right. And Tommy's a musician, so maybe the burglar had a grudge against him. He wanted to destroy his property and Lucille's, but for some reason he didn't get upstairs to their bedrooms. So, _their_ enemies. Old musician buddies, Lucille's old boyfriends. _Think_."

  "No, no enemies"--soft--say his brain just clicked on.

  Change-up: "I need to fingerprint you and your family. We need to compare your prints against any prints the burglar might have left."

  He pulled a money clip out. "No. It's not right. I clean my own--"

  I squeezed his hand shut. "Play it your way. Just remember it's Exley's show, and I owe him more than I owe Wilhite."

  He tore his hand free and fanned out C-notes.

  I said, "Fuck you. Fuck your whole greasy family."

  Rip, tear--he trashed two grand easy.

  I waltzed before it got worse.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Shitwork time.

  Pinker labbed the dogs. The print guys got smudges, partials. The crowd dwindled; blues canvassed. Junior logged reports: nothing hot that night, archetypal Kafesjian rebop.

  Dig: epic family brawls, all-night sax noise. J.C. watered the lawn in a jock strap. Tommy pissed out his bedroom window. Madge and Lucille: wicked tantrum shouters. Bruises, black eyes--standard issue.

  Slow time-let it drag.

  Lucille and Madge took off--adios in a pink Ford Vicky. Tommy practiced scales--the lab men popped in earplugs. Beer cans out the windows--Lunch of Champions.

  Junior fetched the _Herald_. A Morton Diskant announcement: press conference, 6:00 tonight.

  Time to kill--I hit the lab van, watched the techs work.

  Tissue slicing, extraction-our boy jammed the dogs' eyes down their throats. Back to my car, a doze-bum sleep two nights running stretched me thin.

  "Dave, rise and shine"--Ray Pinker, too goddamn soon.

  Up yawning. "Results?"

  "Yes, and interesting. I'm not a doctor and what I did wasn't an autopsy, but I think I can reconstruct some things conclusively."

  "Go. Tell me now, then route me a summary report."

  "Well, the dogs were poisoned with hamburger laced with sodium tryctozine, commonly known as ant poison. I found leather glove f ragments on their teeth and gums, which leads me to believe that the burglar tossed them the meat, but didn't wait for them to die before he mutilated them. You told me you smelled chloroform, remember?"

  "Yeah. I figured it was the washrags in their mouths."

  "You're close so far. But it wasn't chloroform, it was stelfactiznide chloride, a dry-cleaning chemical. Now, J.C. Kafesjian owns a string of dry-cleaning shops. Interesting?"

  The man broke in, stole and destroyed. A psycho, but precise-no disarray. Bold: and time-consuming. Psycho-crazy shit: and neat, precise.

  "You're saying
he might know the family, might work in one of the shops."

  "Right."

  "Did you find the girl's pants?"

  "No. We found charred fabric mounds in that garbage can with the dogs, so there's no way to test the semen for blood type."

  "Shit. Fried pedal pushers sounds just like J.C."

  "Dave, listen. This verges on theory, but I like it."

  "Go ahead."

  "Well, the dogs were chemically scalded right around their eyes, and the bones in their snouts were broken. I think the burglar debilitated them with the poison, clamped down on their snouts, then tried to blind them while they were still alive. Stelfactiznide causes blindness when locally applied, but they flailed too much and bit him. They died from the poison, then he gutted them postmortem. He had some strange fix on their eyes, so he carefully pulled them out, stuffed them down their throats and stuffed the washrags soaked in chemical in their mouths. All four eyeballs were saturated with that chloride, so I rest my case."

  Junior and a bluesuit hovering. "Dave--"

  Cut him off: "Ray, have you _ever_ heard of watchdog torture on a 459?"

  "Never. And I'll go out on a limb for motive."

  "Revenge?"

  "Revenge."

  "Dave . . ."

  "_What?_"

  "This is Officer Bethel. Officer, tell the lieutenant."

  Nervous--a rookie. "Uh, sir, I got two confirmations on a prowler on this block the night of the burglary. Sergeant Stemmons, he's had me checking on the houses where nobody was home earlier. This old lady told me she called the Wilshire desk, and this man, he said he saw him too."

  "Description?"

  "J-just a young male Caucasian. No other details, but I called the desk anyway. They did send a car out. No luck, and no white prowlers got arrested or Fl carded anywhere in the division that night."

  A lead--shove it at Junior. "Call Wilshire and get four more men to hit the not-at-home addresses, say from six o'clock on. Have them go for descriptions on possible prowlers. Check those files I told you to and go by the first three Kafesjian shops on your list. Ray?"

  "Yeah, Dave."

  "Ray, tell Stemmons here your chemical angle. Junior, hit that angle with the employees at the shops. If you get a rabbit, don't do something stupid like kill him."