An actor's pause. Jack said, "Goddammit, «and?»"

Slower. "I never saw the older boy again, and I can't even remember his name. Atherton was convicted and executed, and I wasn't asked to testify at his trial. It got to be '39, right in there. I was still in the Dieterling stable, but I was a boy ingenue. Mr. Dieterling had this little studio contingent go out to the opening of the Arroyo Seco Freeway, just a publicity appearance. Preston Exley, he was a big-shot contractor now, and he cut the ribbon. I heard Mr. Dieterling, Patchett and Terry Lux, you know him, talking."

Pins and needles. "Miller, come on."

"I'll never forget what they said, Jack. Patchett told Lux, 'I've got the chemicals to keep him from hurting anybody and you plasticked him.' Lux said, 'And I'll get him a keeper.' Mr. Dieterling, I'll never forget the way his voice sounded. He said, 'And I gave Preston Exley a scapegoat he believes in beyond Loren Atherton. And I think the man owes me too much now to hurt me."'

Jack touched himself-he thought he'd stopped breathing. Breathing behind him-strained. Eyes on Exley and White in the doorway-up close to each other frozen.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

Now all his lines crossed in ink.

Red ink mutilations. An inkwell spilling blood. Cartoon characters on a marquee with Raymond Dieterling, Preston Exley, an all-star criminal cast. Ink colors: red, green for bribe money. Black for mourning-the dead supporting players. White and Vincennes knew, they'd probably tell Gallaudet-he kicked them out of the hotel knowing it. He could warn his father or not warn his father and the end would be the same. He could keep going or sit in this room and watch his life explode on television.

Long hours down-he couldn't reach for the phone. He turned on the TV, saw his father at a freeway ceremony, stuck his gun in his mouth while the man mouthed platitudes. The trigger half back-fade to a commercial. He emptied four rounds, spun the cylinder, put the barrel to his head. He squeezed the trigger twice, empty chambers, he couldn't believe what he'd done. He threw his piece out the window-a wino grabbed it off the sidewalk, shot up the sky. He laughed, sobbed, punched himself out on the furniture.

More hours down doing nothing.

The phone rang-Ed flailed for it blind. "Uh… yes?"

"Captain, you there? It's Vincennes."

"I'm here. What is it?"

"I'm at the Bureau with White. We just caught a squeal and grabbed it. 2206 North New Hampshire, Billy Dieterling's house. Billy and an unknown male dead. Fisk rolled on it already. Cap, «are you there?»"

No no no-yes. "I'm going… I'll be there."

"Will do. And by the way, White and I didn't tell Gallaudet what Stanton said. Thought you should know that."

"Thank you, Sergeant."

"Thank White. He's the one you had to worry about."

Fisk met him there-a mock Tudor lit by headlights-blackand-whites, crime lab cars on the lawn.

Ed ran up; Fisk spoke shorthand. "Neighbor woman heard screams, waited half an hour and called. She saw a man run out, get into Billy Dieterling's car and take off. He hit a tree down the block, got out and ran. I took a statement. White, male, early forties, average build. Sir, brace yourself."

Flashbulb pops inside. Ed said, "«Seal it here». No Homicide, no station cops. No press, and I don't want Dieterling's father to find out. Have Kleckner seal the car and go get me Timmy Valburn. «Find him. Now»."

"Sir, they blew our tail. I feel bad about this, like it's our fault."

"It doesn't matter, just do what I told you."

Fisk ran to his car; Ed walked in, looked.

Billy Dieterling on a white couch soaked red. A knife in his throat; two knives in his stomach. His scalp on the floor, stuck to the carpet with an icepick. A few feet away: a fortyish white man-disemboweled, eviscerated, knives in his cheeks, two kitchen forks in his eyes. Drug capsules soaking in floor blood.

No artful desecrations-his man was past it now.

Ed walked into the kitchen. Patchett to Lux '39: "I've got the chemicals to keep him from hurting anybody, and you plasticked him." Cupboards dumped; forks and spoons on the floor. Ray Dieterling '39: "A scapegoat he believes in." Bloody footprints in and out-his man made trips for more adornment. Lux: "I'll get him a keeper." A scalp section in the sink. "Preston Exley, he was a big-shot contractor now." A bloody handprint on the wall, a psycho passion job for Crim 101's all-time list.

Ed squinted at the print-ridges and whirls showed plainly. Psycho oblivion: his man pressed his hand there to leave an imprimatur.

Back to the living room. Trashcan Jack in the middle of a half dozen lab techs. Bad flashbulb glare, no Bud White.

Trash said, "The other man's Jerry Marsalas. He's a male nurse, and he's sort of the keeper of this guy on the «Badge of Honor» crew. David Mertens, the set designer. Very quiet, he's got epilepsy or something like that."

"Plastic surgery scars?"

"Graft scars all over his neck and back. I saw him with his shirt off once."

Techs swarming now-Ed led Vincennes out to the porch. Cool air, bright bright headlights. Trash said, "Mertens is the right age to be that older kid Stanton was talking about. Lux cut him, so Miller wouldn't have recognized him on the set. All the grafts on his back, he could have been cut lots of times. Jesus, the look on your face. You're taking it all the way?"

"I don't know. I want one more day to see what we can get on Dudley."

"And see if White tries to shank you. He could have told Gallaudet the whole story, but he didn't."

"White's as crazy as anybody in this thing."

Trash laughed. "Yeah, like you. Boss, if you and Gallaudet want this mess to go to due process, you'd better lock that boy up. He's out to kill Dudley and Deuce, and believe me he'll do it."

Ed laughed. "I told him he could."

"You'd «let him» do-"

Cut him off. "Jack, do this. Stake Mertens' place and see if you can find White, then-"

"He's chasing down Perkins, how do I-"

"Just try to find him. And with or without him, meet me at Mickey Cohen's house tomorrow at nine. We're going to brace him on Dudley."

Vincennes looked around. "I don't see anybody from Homicide here."

"You and Fisk caught it, so Homicide doesn't know. I can keep it I.A.-sealed for twenty-four hours or so. It's ours until the press gets it."

"No APB on Mertens?"

"I'll call out half of l.A. He's a drooling psychotic. We'll get him."

"Suppose I find him. You don't want him talking old times, not with your father part of it."

"Take him alive. I want to talk to him."

Vincennes said, "For crazy, White's got nothing on you."

Ed sealed it.

He called Chief Parker, told him he had an I.A.-related double homicide and was keeping the victims' identities secret. He woke up five I.A. men, filled them in on David Mertens, sent them out to search for him. He made the neighbor lady who called in the squeal take a sedative, go to bed, promise she wouldn't spill the name "Billy Dieterling" to the press. The press arrived-he mollified them with John Doe IDs, sent them packing. He walked to the end of the block and examined the car-Kleckner watchdogging it-a Packard Caribbean with the front wheels up on the curb, the fender nosed into a tree. The driver's seat, dash and shift lever-bloody; perfect bloody handprints on the outside of the windshield. Kleckner stripped the license plates; Ed told him to drive the car home, stash it, team up with the searchers. Courtesy calls from a pay phone: the watch commander at Rampart Station, the duty M.E. at the City Morgue. A lie: Parker wanted a twenty-four-hour blanket on the killings- no statements to the press, no autopsy reports circulated. 3:40 A.M., no Homicide brass at the scene-Parker carte-blanched him.