“We’ll tell the press it was accidental death. IA will investigate, very discreetly.”

“And steer clear of the Kafesjians.”

“They’ll be dealt with in time. Do you think Narco could have done this?”

Stemmons sobbing.

“Klein—”

“No. Sure, they could rig a hotshot, but I don’t think it’s them. I’m leaning toward a legit OD.”

“Why?”

“A patrolman said Junior had a front-door key in his pocket. He was a doped-up crazy fuck, and this place is a known Tommy K. dope drop and hangout. If they were going to kill him, they wouldn’t have left the body here.”

“What kind of condition did you find his apartment in?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, and you should let me forensic it. I aced forensics undergrad, and I trashed the place and probably left prints up the ying-yang.”

“Do it, then wipe it. And call Pacific Bell and get his phone records sealed. Now, last night you said Stemmons had dope stored in safedeposit boxes.”

“Yes.”

“Do you know which banks?”

“I’ve got his bank books and the box keys.”

“Good, and you’re an attorney, so I’ll go along with your ‘dope stash’ fantasy and tell you to study your law books and figure out a strategy to bypass Welles Noonan and secure a bank writ.”

“Fantasy?”

Sighing: “Stemmons has dirt on you. It’s most likely stored in those boxes. He was extorting you on some level, or you would have dealt with him in your inimitable strongarm fashion before this lunacy of his extended so far out of control.”

NOW, SPILL IT:

“He had a clipping file on you. It was hidden with some Personnel forms on Johnny Duhamel. Last night I made a bullshit comment on Duhamel that jacked your blood pressure up about twenty points, so don’t you fucking patronize me.”

“Describe the file”—no reaction, pure frost.

“All your Bureau cases. Thorough—Junior was as good a paperwork evidence man as I’ve ever seen. I broke into his apartment last week and found it. Last night it was gone.”

“Interpret.”

I winked Dudley-style. “Let’s just say it’s nice to know that my good buddy Ed has got a personal stake in this too. And don’t worry on Kafesjian 459 PC—I’m in way too deep to stop.”

Window view—Papa Stemmons grieving. “You should calm him down, Eddie. We don’t want him screwing up this personal thing of ours.”

“Call me after your forensic”—about-face, watch him go.

Window view:

Exley waltzing up to Stemmons—no handshake, no embrace. Crack the window, listen:

“Your son… forbid you to interfere or talk to the press…spare you the pain of his pervert tendencies made public.”

Stemmons weaving, grief-crazy.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Car radio downtown:

KMPC: Policeman Found Dead at Southside Jazz Club—LAPD Says Heart Attack.

KGFJ: After-Hours Shootout! Five Negroes Dead!

Press blanket—Exley working fast.

Nothing on Harold John Miciak.

Police-band check—dipshit cops ID’ing Junior by name.

The Bureau, my office-a run for clean clothes. A locker-room shave and shower—keyed up, exhausted.

Down the hall to Personnel—I requisitioned Junior’s print abstract. Furtive: I grabbed Johnny Duhamel’s.

The lab—I bagged an evidence kit and a camera. A call to PC Bell—Exley’s name dropped.

Do this:

Compile all Gladstone 4-0629 calls going back twenty days.

List the names and addresses of all people called.

Hold all George Stemmons, Jr., records—awaiting Chief Exley’s court order.

Call me at that number—with full results—inside four hours.

Car radio back out:

Watts killings—Negro preacher blames liquor—“the enslaver of our people.”

Exley press-leak fantasia:

During a hot pursuit through a closed-down Southside nightclub, Sergeant George Stemmons, Jr., suffers a fatal heart attack. The robber escapes; there will be no autopsy—it violates the dead officer’s religion.

No Miciak.

No Fed stuff.

Blues guarding Junior’s door—I locked them out and worked.

I took photos:

Booby traps/cornflake piles/sloth.

I bagged fibers, listed property.

Print dusting next—tedious, slow. I got Junior himself—multiple sets—ten point matched to the abstract. The living room/hallway/ kitchen—odd latents, featuring scar ridges. An easy make—me—Pops caught me stealing and burned my fingers.

Three rooms down—I wiped them clean. The inside doorway—a new set, a match: Duhamel, eight comparison points. Extrapolate it: Johnny scared to enter.

I wiped them. The phone rang—PC Bell, responding.

I copied:

Writer’s cramp-interpret the data:

Mom-Dad/work early on—straight biz. Duhamel calls next—Junior going crazy. The Victory Motel—Mobster Squad HQ—Smith’s strongarm spot/Johnny on duty.

Pay phones then—Darktown locations—say dope biz, maybe talks with Steve Wenzel. A non-sequitur phone booth—Olympic and La Breathe Kafesjian pad six blocks south. Crazy Junior—THEY said don’t call the house.

11/12 to 11/16—no calls, Junior INSANE. 11/16—my late Glenda call.

Logical, but:

Lynwood pay-phone calls = ????

Exhaustion-fried—I dusted the bed rail.

Fuck—

Interlocked hand spreads—laced fingers gripping. Sweat smears, viable latents: and no Johnny points. Obvious Junior prints linked with unknown prints: some ham-handed faggot.

Wipe them—bbring bbring—grab the phone, shut the bed out.

“Exley?”

“It’s John Duhamel.”

“What the—how did you know I was here?”

“I heard a radio call about Stemmons. I drove by his place, and the patrolmen told me you were inside. I—look, I need to talk to you.”

ADRENALINE—my head buzzed.

“Where are you?”

“No… meet me tonight.”

“Come on, now.”

“No, we’ll make it eight o’clock. 4980 Spindrift. It’s in Lynwood.”

“Why there?”

“Evidence.”

“Johnny, tell me—”

Click—dial tone—tap the button—Exley, fast.

NO.

Don’t—he’s hinked on Johnny—just maybe.

Option call—I dialed MA 4-8630.

“Office of the District Attorney.”

“Dave Klein for Bob Gallaudet.”

“I’m sorry, sir. Mr. Gallaudet is in a staff meeting.”

“Tell him it’s urgent.”

Transfer clicks, “Dave, what can I do for you?”

“A favor.”

“Name it—you’ve shot me a few recently.”

“I need a look at an lAD personal file.”

“Is this an Ed innovation? IA’s very much his cadre.”

“Yeah, it’s an Exley thing. When a man makes the Detective Bureau, IAD does a very thorough background check. I’m meeting a man tonight, and I need more of a handle on him. It’s about the Darktown trouble, and you could get a look at the file with no questions.”

“You’re doing this behind Ed’s back.”

“Yeah, like those Kafesjian reports I gave you.”