Destination (24 page)

4.

Jolting Joe Tierney—all hail the Chief!

He sized me up silent. He eyeball engaged me. His gaze cut to the quick.

I called his office. I made the meet. I sat steady now. Junkyard Joe Tierney—you malevolent mick.

He said, “The rhino regalia works for the most part. I like the tie bar and the belt buckle, but the rhino-patterned tie has to go.”

The chair chafed my ass. The office offended. The pictures piqued me.

Joe T. and the Pope—a Polack pals pose. Joe T. and that boss babe Mother Teresa. Joe T. and Hillary Clinton—dyked-out like bull-dagger Biff.

I said, “Thanks, Chief. I'll take you with me the next time I go shopping at Costco.”

Tierney yukked. “You know, this is not the righteous right-wing white man's LAPD you grew up in.”

I yukked. “Yeah, call me lucky. I got to waste three spooks and two wetbacks pre-Rodney King.”

“You've got panáche, Rhino. I'll give you that. And you're smart enough to know that the Department can't handle more bad publicity right now. We've got civilian litigation up the ying-yang, we're hamstrung by the Consent Decree, and our officers are afraid to make arrests, because every street creep they jack up is thinking lawsuit.”

I yukked and yawned. I was tapped out and tired. I stayed up late at Stephanie's.

“Did you call me in for a valid reason, or did you just want to critique my wardrobe?”

Tierney tapped his teeth. Booze breath blew my way. One malign mick/one power-lunch lush.

“All right, let's get to it. You knew Danny Getchell. You gave him dope for information, which was a common practice in those days. Your mistake was giving dope to a guy who kept files and wrote everything down. Now, Danny's dead, but Gary Getchell's alive, and he doesn't like our chum Captain Lauter. He's mentioned him in one
Hush-Hush
piece, and he may be thinking he can milk Narco Division in upcoming pieces that will gravely embarrass the Department as a whole. Your job is to dissuade him.”

I seethed silent. Hold for the humping. Thrill to the threat.

I held hard. Junkyard Joe mowed out martini fumes and maimed me.

“I wouldn't want to press departmental charges on you for indiscretions that came to light via
Hush-Hush.
So, you and Tom Ludlow lean on Gary Getchell and tell him to lay off Captain Lauter
and
the LAPD. Tell him we're sacrosanct, tell him never to use his files against us, and make your point with some pain.”

MUSCLE JOB— MAN- O - MAN! Coercive copwork calls!

I humped to Hollywood Station. Phone Book Tom stood outside. We bopped to Bel-Air CC.

Tom trumpeted trouble. He waved a Westside book and wafted obscenities. He still stiffed dirty phone calls. He still “nabbed nymphos” and “bagged bitches” that way. He still got vivid Vietnam flashbacks. Said flashbacks floored him. He dug the noxious nostalgia and draconian dramaturgy. Aaah, youth! Tender times of torture and vivisected VC!

We hit Bel-Air. I saw unmarked cop cars undulate up Udine Way. Dig the full daytime rehearsal for the fiend who fends by night. Beautiful Bel-Air: prime turf for the hot-prowl
bandido.
Rolling stakeouts tapped for tonite.

There's the country club. There's the caddy parking lot. Dig that dinged-up Dodge Dart. Dig that calcified Cadi
black
and that lake-piped Lin
coon Coon
tinental.

There's a vandalized van. It's flame-painted and flat-tired. The windshield's cracked and crushed. The back door's bent free.

There's Gary Getchell inside. There's a mimeograph machine. He's packaging items—perchance panties?

We parked and popped over. Getchell piled panties and plied them in plastic baggies. Dig the van's wild wall pix—all vintage
Hush-Hush.

Marilyn Monroe: Mandingo-esque miscegenist! Ava Gardner's dusky delights! Johnnie Ray's men's room misadventure! Hunky homo Rock Hudson!

Getchell said, “Fuzz, huh? This feels like grief I don't need.”

Tom tapped his phone book. The binding: busted loose from overuse. The page ends: bristly brown from blood.

I said, “Don't use the files. That means no Lauter and no LAPD.”

Getchell guffawed. He picked up a panty package. He twirled it Tom's way.

“Ten bucks a sniff. What do you say, caveman? Megan won't mind, and it just might tighten up your wig.”

I signaled Tom. Tom torqued his phone book. One bonaroo backhand—Getchell's snout snapped.

His nose dripped and bipped blood on plastic. Dig the panty-package stains.

I said, “Don't use the files. No Lauter, no LAPD.”

Getchell popped a panty pack. Getchell hooked out a hanky-panty and blew his beak.

“Last call. Two sniffs for fifteen snoots. You cats are way out on the sex-violence nexus. Come on, two sniffs
for ten.
That's my last offer.”

I signaled Tom. Tom torqued his phone book. One fine forehand—Getchell got thwapped.

I said, “Don't use the files. No Lauter, no LAPD. Say yes and we're gone.”

Getchell groaned and grimaced. Getchell tugged a tooth loose. Dig the devastated dentistry.

“Here's my final offer. The Megan More Premier DVD Collection, plus two sniffs apiece, for ten scoots. Come on, I'm taking it up the shit chute on this.”

I signaled Tom. Tom torqued his phone book. One overboard overhand—Getchell flew and flattened out on the floor.

He coughed. More blood blossomed. More teeth tore free.

I said, “Don't use the files. Come on, Gary. I'm not enjoying this.”

Getchell got up. He stood stern and stared at me.

“I know about you and that actress cooze. Fall '83. Does that sound familiar? I hate that cooze, 'cause a friend of mine does, but there's this avenging angel out there.”

A cold curtain caught and contained me. It held me and hurt me and bloomed like blood.

I grabbed the phone book. I backhanded bad and forehanded fierce and underhanded
uggggly.
Getchell banged the walls. The van rocked and rolled. Phone Book Tom pulled me free.

NIX THAT NEXUS. Say
sí
to sex. Violence—voice a
nyet.

I moped through a muscle-job menopause. I felt fucked up and fit for shit. I was apocalyptic
and
apologetic. Post-panty depression hit me.

I dropped off Tom L. I drove by Stephanie's pad. I salved my soiled soul and heard my cell phone sizzle.

Conflicting calls. Donna's at the Hamburger Hamlet, Donna's chilled out at Chia Brasserie.

I hooked by the Hamlet. A Donna look-alike lapped lager in a leatherette booth. I chugged by Chia. Charlie Chink said, “Miss Donahue get food to go.”

Dusk. Deign me Donna-deprived, down in the dumps and digging on diversion. I drove to the hot-prowl stakeout.

Bel-Air again. Regal Roscomere Road. Piles of palm trees and sparkling Spanish mansions. Two unmarked units parked at perimeter posts. West L.A. cops couched in one. Dave Slatkin and a piebald pit bull piled in another.

I parked behind the pitmobile. I joined Dave and the dog. Said dog: all lapping love for LAPD and all malicious muscle. Dave: dander-dusted and deep in dog-lover delight.

We settled in. We sipped corrosive coffee. We shot the shit.

We agreed: Fuck the Lauter/Narco/Getchell file fantasia. Linus laundered Leotis's dope cash. Linus fathered Leotis—loin linkage went deep. Joe Tierney—our new Chief—fearful of the Feds. I said this deal hops hinky—weird shit shears this way and that. Dave said it meant fuck-all. Fuck it and forget it, and feast on this:

Tim found a file box. Dig—it's detritus on Stephanie. The box: back at Parker Center. Tim found it in an old file bank. It was crammed into a crevicelike crawl space.

We resettled in. We racked our seats back recumbent. Pancho the pit bull surveilled the street. Dave hoped the hot-prowl man was a boogie. Pancho craved dark meat.

The night was dead dark. Dave dug it. Listen—this lout's lunar-tuned.

Dave dug in. Dave profiled the prick.

He's a full-fledged fiend. He's Donald Keith Bashor made millennial. Bashor righteously rape-o'd one woman. Bashor almost rape-o'd Karil Graham in death. Our guy's female-fucked. He's out to instigate an image. His hot prowls: preludes to rape. He's looking for
the
woman.

I agreed. I added: And he's brazen. You can't drive through Bel-Air or Holmby Hills and not bid big-time suspicion. Dave agreed. Dave added: He walks. It's why he's lunar-tuned. He's down on darkness.

I agreed. I added: He parks south and sidles up silent. South of Wilshire equals Holmby Hills, south of Sunset equals Bel-Air. Dave agreed. Dave added: He could go to ground on golf courses. L.A. Country Club/Holmby Hills, Bel-Air CC/Bel-Air.

Our talk tapped out. We yawned. Pancho snored and snoozed in my lap. I slipped into sleep. Dreams drifted through.

Stephanie. Donna. Time suspended surreal. Gary Getchell, beat on and bold: “I hate that cooze, 'cause a friend of mind does, but there's this avenging angel out there.” Angels rigged as ridgebacks—choice cherubs with coarse coats and dog faces. Megan More lez-leering at Donna.

I dream-droned. I slid in and out of sleep. Pancho panted beside me. I made him my mascot. I framed the front seat as my marriage bed with Donna. Dig the mastiff metamorphosis—pit bull Pancho as Reggie Ridgeback.

Our radio rumbled. Static stammered and stuck. I woke up woozy. Dave jerked and woke up—

“2-A-44, hit your brights!”

Dave caught the key. The engine engaged. I lit the low beams and brought on the brights. Right there—midnite made broad daylight.

A Spanish manse laid to our left. A large lady screaming. Light behind her—2-A-43's brights.

The woman scree-scree-screamed. She stumbled down the steps. She dug at a dart in her neck. Man down in the doorway
—
her
man in matching pj's. He's two-dart devastated: one dart in each eyeball. He looks dart-defiled dead.

Two cops coming up—2-A-43—on foot
faaaast.
That large lady on her lawn, screaming. It's all front-lit-framed with back lights bouncing.

I pulled my piece. Dave pulled his piece. Pancho piled out the window. We lurched into the light. A car cut in front of us. It ran in reverse. I caught a brief blip: sixty-plus white man, grinning.

We fired. We hit the car. Ricochets resounded. The other cops fired. They hit the car. Ricochets racked up and reverbed.

Pancho ran. The car ran in reverse. Pancho dived in the driver's side window. The hot-prowl hump raised his trank gun. Pam—Pancho picked up a dart.

We chased the car. We fired. Four fuckers on foot, one reverse rocket ship. The car careened backward. It banged backyard fences and tore through trellis posts. We ran. We reloaded. We ran and shot at the reverse rocket. We ran and ran out of ammo. The car barged through backyards and disappeared in the dark.

THE FUCK RELANDSCAPED eight backyards. The fuck fucking
ex-
caped.

A SWAT team swung through. They door-knocked and bopped through backyards. No Hot-Prowl Harvey extant. Choppers churned overhead. Their belly lights burned. No Hot-Prowl Harry hiding. No 60-plus sickos seen.

Pancho lived. One dart to the duodenum—no damage there. Dave kissed and caressed him and came on with dog treats. I posited Pancho for LAPD honors. The SWAT cops agreed.

The two-dart man died. Toxic shock tore through his system. His wife stood strong. She stuttered out a statement.

She heard hinky noises. She woke up. There's Hot-Prowl Hal in her bedroom. He's got his hot-prowl hamster out. He's siphoning said python in her lingerie drawer.

She shrieks. Hot-Prowl Humphrey darts her. Her hubby wakes up. Hot-Prowl double-darts him.

A lab crew hit the house. They ladled up the lingerie and located some jizz. DNA testable—yeah! Dip it through the DNA database and hold your hot-prowl breath.

The crew crawled entry points. They found fresh dirt by a dinged door lock. The crew crept backyards. They walked down to the west Bel-Air gate. Similar dirt—in scuff patterns on the sidewalk.

Dave and I talked. The 2-A-43 guys talked. All hands agreed:

We couldn't eyeball-ID the hot-prowl hellhound. No way to cut a composite. No way to initiate an Identikit pic.

We all popped to Parker Center. We mowed through mug books and looked for likenesses. One sixtyish sicknik—nothing popped out.

Dawn. The Chief of Detectives arrives and anoints us. Hey, Jenson and Slatkin. Grab Tim Marti and work this hot-prowl homicide.

Dave dug it. Dave was an emphatic empiricist and a dedicated Donald Keith Bashor-phile. His take: Our guy was older. He might be hot-prowl hip to his bad Bashor-like roots. He'd killed now. He masturbated moments before. He fucked the fuzz on his getaway. His essential escalation Bashor-boded: rape and rape-kill!!!!!

Tim showed. His take: Let's track the tranquilizers. Tim dug the dichotomy: powerful potions for humans, benign benzodiazepines for dogs. Dave disagreed—it's too tough to track. There's street stuff and privately prescribed. Our Bashoresque best bet: more rolling stakes.

I yawned. All this hot-prowl hurly-burly bored me. I only prized its proximity to Donna.

I wanted back in her bed—flat-on or fleeting. Evil e-mails and panty precedents might tweak her toward me. The Hot-Prowl Hymie—clamoring close by—might help.

I wanted to hide in the heart of her hearth.

5.

I hooked home. I racked up some rest. I refitted my head and dipped out to my doorstep.

No Megan More master's thesis. No fucking FedEx, no UPS, no Overnight Express.

The hot-prowl job boded—back-to-work big. Donna Standard Time torqued me more. The master's man lived in Koreatown. I could cruise out and run back to Robbery-Homicide.

The day unrolled ugly. Smog smeared the L.A. basin and hid the Hollywood Hills. The air was lash-your-lungs carcinogenic. The sky was tamale tan. Koreatown was heat-hazed and Seoulful. Pico Boulevard bustled. It was a slant-eyed sluice and a last line of demarcation. The L.A. Congo came on south of there.

I poured down Pico and bipped up Berendo. The master's man's pad stood straight ahead. It's a ten-story tenement walk-up. It's stark stucco and smells of bracing broiled eel and kimchi.

I parked and lolled through the lobby. Listless layabouts eyeballed me. They tipped tallboys of Schlitz malt liquor. They oozed absentee attitude. They were slick slants and Cheerless Charlie Chinks.

I moseyed to the mail slots. Jack Jen-kin—up in unit #14.

The elevator churned and chugged. The vents vibrated. Sexy scents siphoned through. I made monkey meat and pulled pork cooked in kimchi.

The elevator stopped. I stepped out and hopped down the hallway. There's #14.

Whoa, wait, what's this—

Stink crawled out a door crack. Bugs batted the baseboard and dinged the doorway within. Buzz, buzz, bap, bap—insects inflamed, distressed, and disturbed.

I got out a credit card. I dug at the doorjamb. Tumblers tipped. The door popped.

Fumes flew up and fucked me full. I braced my breakfast back down. I shivered. I shut the door. I shook off bug battalions. Said bugs buzzed back to a hallway. I followed the fumes and stared at the stiff.

One maggot-mauled male Korean. Deep dead and decomped. Laid out on a lavender rug. One big-bore head wound.

There's the gun. It's by the body. It's a fat .44 Mag. The wound was wide. Maggots mamboed out a cranial crack.

I knelt down. I noticed neck wounds. Bright bruises and tight torture cuts. The stink stung me. I pinched my nostrils. I hooked my ham-and-egg McMuffin back.

There's the note. It's tacked to the wall. It's plied in plain view.

“I cannot go on. I love Megan More more than life itself, but she does not love me. Good-bye, Megan. I'll see you where the angels sing.”

Hinky handwriting. Heaps of hesitation marks. Vibrating vowels. Crawling consonants coerced. Torture to instigate information. Murder made suicide.

I pored through the pad. I pinched my nose and pulled up peremptory details. I stared at staged shit and staved off the stink.

The kitchen. A mainline maggot migration. Full sink. Dirty dishes. Maggot-maimed chunks of chuck steak. Call it cool: The killer caught Jen-kin here and juked him.

The bedroom. Megan More on white walls. Cheap cheese-cake/snappy snapshots/no dust underneath. Call it cold: put-up pix. Prime props to suicide-sync.

I dumped desk drawers. I reached under rugs. I bombed through bookshelves. No Megan More master's thesis.

I jacked on Jen-kin's computer. I mouse-moved and tapped in “Megan More.” I mapped in Megan More–ish cue words. No Megan More master's thesis or minutiae scrolled up.

I walked back to the hallway. Maggots julienned Jack Jen-kin and marched down his mouth. The door dipped open. A slant-eye slithered and slid and crept through the crack. The door closed and clicked. I rhino-ran up.

I ran out. I heaved down the hall. I saw Chuck the Chink reach a fire door and stop short. I jumped him. I heaped on the hurt. I smashed his face. He dented the door. I booted him in the balls. He wiggled and whimpered. I grabbed his greasy hair and hauled him back to the pad.

I shut the door. He saw the gore-dead gook and the maggot majorettes. He screamed. I rang up the reaction. Unfaked fear/ unlikely killer/don't make him for Murder One yet.

The smell smacked him. His yellow skin grew green. He projectile-puked. I dodged food flecks. He brought up broiled eel cooked in kimchi.

I dragged him to the kitchen. I stood him by the sink. I coursed on some cold water. I dunked him and doused him and saw his skin grow back from gray-green.

He sputtered. He shook and shaked. I patted his pockets. I pulled out pills. He possessed Percodan sans prescription. I knew he knew
something.
I knew he'd snitch.

I pulled my beavertail sap. I patted my palms. I let him hear the weight whip.

“You know something. You know something happened here, so you thought you'd check it out. Come clean, and you walk. Fuck with me and I pop you for the perks.”

He shuddered. I patted my palms. I sap-slapped the side of my legs.

He shook. He moved away from a maggot mound. His voice vibratoed. He sounded off soprano. He came on like a queer and a quiff.

“Four days ago, maybe. I see narcs who bust me. They follow Jack. They get him in lobby and bring him up here. Then I hear screams.”

I poked him hard. I bounced my beavertail on my knees. He shivered. Shakedown Rick scared him.

“Who were the narcs? You know their names, because they popped you.”

The gook gulped. “Berchem and Mosher. They bad. They plant dope on me.”

Flashbacks floored me. Lauter. His hinky hard-on for
Hush-Hush.
Megan More with Gary Getchell. The funeral. Berchem and Mosher. Surreptitious surveillance. Two goons taking Megan More pix.

I walked to a wall phone. I called the Cold Case Unit. Dave picked up.

“Slatkin.”

I said, “It's me. I need you to do something, no questions asked.”

“Well . . . O.K.”

Maggots tripped up my trouser legs. I beavertail-beat them and drove them down.

“There's a homicide. It's Narco and Lauter-connected. Cal Eggers is probably the only up-and-up guy in the division. I need you to call Tierney and get his O.K. to pull Eggers and hold him.”

Dave said, “O.K., but this sounds—”

I hung up. I passed the punk his pills. He ran out. I cultivated connections.

Narco goons. Linus and Leotis Lauter. Gary G. Megan More. Jack Jen-kin—the maggot-munched Meganphile.

Nyet—
nothing clicked conclusive.

I walked to the door. I saw a panty pile atop a TV. I was sailing on the sex-violence nexus. I stopped and took three good sniffs.

COOL CAL EGGERS— couched in a cat box—an 8 by 12 interview room.

We watched through a 2-way. The mirror made Cal wiggle and weave. He was drip-dry and freon frosty. He vibed no guilt.

I thought so. Ditto Dave and Tim. We watched. We waited. We killed the air-conditioning and hitched up the heat. Cool Cal kept his coat on—you can't sweat me.

Dave talked to Tierney. The mad mick sent a SID team out. They reconnoitered and ran through room 14. The pad—professionally print-wiped. The suicide note—a felonious fake. The maggot multitude made the man a full four days dead. The queer called it correct. Bill Berchem and Bob Mosher—not there at Narco—“out in the field.”

Cal wiggled and weaved. Cal winked at the mirror. We shared a look and walked in.

We chose chairs. We tilted them tableside. Cal slid his seat closer in.

I said, “It's about Narco, and maybe Captain Lauter.”

Cal said, “You're putting me to sleep.”

Tim said, “Nobody thinks you're dirty.”

Cal said, “Wake me when it's over.”

Dave said, “You weren't in the unit when Lauter pulled those stunts with his son.”

Cal said, “Hit me with some new stuff I haven't read in
Hush-Hush.
”

Tim tapped the table. “Bill Berchem and Bob Mosher. An actress named Megan More, and a dead slant named Jack Jen-kin.”

Cal craned his neck. Cal cracked his knuckles. Cal said, “Oh, shit.”

Dave drummed the table. “You've got interdepartmental immunity. That's straight from Tierney. Beyond that, it's chilled. We're giving Jen-kin to the media as a suicide. We'll make it stick.”

Cal called up some chutzpah. “Tell Tierney to jump me to captain and I'll give up Berchem and Mosher. Tell him I want a done deal.”

I slid out my cell phone. Tim tapped Tierney's number. Tierney took the call two rings in. Dave coughed up Cal's chutzpah sotto voce. Tierney yelled, “Fuck it, O.K.!”

I filched my phone back. Cal shot me a shit-eater grin.

“So, Linus Lauter craves white lady and white snatch. He gets jacked on coke every night, sees Megan More on TV, and gets a jones. He contacts her through her Web site and gets a sick thing going with her. He thought he was seducing her, but she was seducing him. She knew the late Danny Getchell, she knew Linus was a cop who did snitch deals with him, she pumped him for information and got the word on his money-laundering deals
before
the Feds and the fucking
L.A. Times
did. Linus learned she was tight with
Gary
Getchell, and that she was going to leak shit on his deals and their affair to Gary, and he'd publish it in
Hush-Hush.
”

Megan More—miscegenist mama. Multicultural malfeasance
coon
fidential.

Now cut to Koreatown, now jump to Jack Jen-kin.

I said, “The homicide, Cal. The pad at 12th and Berendo.”

Cal coughed. “I got this from Linus. He's wacked on coke and spilling all this paranoia. It seems that Megan More did Berchem, Mosher,
and
him, so now you've got three motivated fuckers out to get her. They heard about the gook's ‘Master's Thesis,' learned that he'd sold practically zilch copies, but that it was full of so-called embarrassing shit. So, Linus tells me that Berchem and Mosher were going out to lean on the gook, and I guess things got out of hand.”

A flashback flamed me. Gary Getchell, per Donna D.:

“I hate that cooze, 'cause a friend of mine does, but there's this avenging angel out there.”

“Avenging angel” Megan More—maybe. Lez-leched on Donna—her motive, maybe.

Captain Cal stood up. Tim said, “We've got to grab Berchem and Mosher.”

Dave said, “I'll tell Tierney what we've got, but
we're
on the hot-prowl case.”

Connections clicked and stopped stillborn. The Donna Diaspora, the Hot-Prowl Holocaust—shit shoved itself at me.

Cal said, “Rhino looks distracted. Want to bet he's thinking about a certain actress?”

Dave said, “Yeah, I know that look.”

Tim said, “My kid's a Megan More fan. This shit will fucking destroy him.”

I PLAYED HOT- PROWL hooky. Those connections clicked too close to Donna. I hopped by Holmby Hills. She was home. I rhino-riffed on contained coincidence. Donna dug my morbid Megan More tale. I said, let's find her. She said, I'll go.

I called R&I. They ran Megan More for rap sheets. Bam— Megan More, minor misdemeanant. Four Beverly Hills beefs. Heavy hooking at high-line hotels.

I called the DMV. I dunned them for Megan More's address. They delivered: 8542 Charleville, Beverly Hills.

We rolled. Lack of sleep slapped me. An anxious undercurrent uncoiled underneath. My Donna deprivation diminished. That sex-violence nexus tipped to sex straight.

We found the pad: a prime provincial four-flat. We parked and dipped up to the door. Four rings, two knocks—no answer. Donna diddled the doorknob. The door popped in.

The living room: bleak, blank-walled, and bereft of furnishings. The kitchen: cleaned out completely. The bathroom and bedroom: bug-sprayed, Lysol-lapped, and furniture-free.

Donna dumped a clothes hamper. Soiled panties sailed out. Premium price tags were clipped to the crotch.

Donna said, “Ugh.”

I still stood on that nexus. I stopped and took three good sniffs.

THE BHPD BODED. I felt rhino-revived and ready to rock. Those sniffs snared me. Sex scents as mainline meth.

We hit the cop shop. Cops recognized Donna. They winged out wolf whistles and lighthearted leers. A clerk clued us: The Vice guy's Vic Vartanian. Find him by the files. He's hard to miss.

We walked back. Cops caught sight of Donna. They called out TV titles. Donna called back, curtsied, and came on cute. There's Vice cop Vic. He's fucking with a file stack. He's swarthy and sweaty and acne-addled. Blackheads bloomed on his big beak.

He saw us. He scoped my belt badge. Donna dinged him. He salaamed, sucked in his gut, and slapped himself dandruff-free.

He said, “So?”

I said, “Megan More. Ring a bell? I thought you might have a sheet on her.”

“I do. Crime reports, dispo reports, known haunts, the whole shmear. That said, I got to say I got something better.”

I whipped to his wavelength. Call him coy. Praise him and say pretty please.

Donna tapped me telepathic. “Could we see your paperwork, Detective? It would be a big help.”

Vic V. veered to a file bank. He draped over the drawers and pulled paper. He came back with some cardboard-bound sheets.

“Some clown wrote a half-assed book about Megan. I bought a copy to squeeze her with, if she ever tried hooking in my jurisdiction again.”

Chills churned through me. It was one wild nexus nudge. Donna held a hand out. Vic tossed her the text.

“You can sit at my desk and read it. You might enjoy it especially, Ms. Donahue.”

TORRID TEXT. The Mephistophelian Megan More Movie. Megan, crazed on crack-cocaine and fulsome full disclosure. Megan's mea culpa and
Mein Kampf.
Jack Jen-kin—her barroom bard and bothersome Boswell. Her un-Christian Korean konfessor.

We read together. We sat chair to chair, cheek to cheek. Donna's scents soared and socked me. Honeysuckle hair and sandalwood soap and full-bore pheromones. All our lopsided love Meganized and poured back onto the page.

Dig: