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is carotid artery； shutting off the blood to his brain。 〃Bobby boy； I do not like Sergeant Blanchard； but he is a fellow officer； and I will not have syphilitic scum like you defaming him。 Now you risked a parole violation and a trip back to Q for a trip down here。 When I let go of your neck you will tell me why； or I will pinch your neck again until your gray cells go snap； crackle and pop like Kellogg's Rice Krispies。〃
Fritzie released the hold； De Witt's face went from blue to dark red。 With one hand； Vogel grabbed suspect and chair and placed them upright。 Lounge lizard Bobby started to laugh again； then sputtered blood and stopped。 Looking up at Fritzie； he reminded me of a dog who loves his cruel master because it's the only one he's got。 His voice was a beaten dog whimper： 〃I came down to cop some horse and bring it back to LA before I reported in to my PO。 The guy I got is supposed to be a softie； you tell him 'Gee； sir； I been in stir eight years and I hadda get my ashes hauled；' and he don't violate you for bein' late。〃
De Witt took a deep breath； Fritzie said； 〃Snap； crackle； pop。〃 Bobby boy dog whimpered the rest of his confession rapidamente： 〃The man down here is this cholo named Felix Chasco。 He's supposed to meet me at the Calexico Gardens Motel tonight。 The LA man's the brother of this guy I knew at Quentin。 I ain't met him and please don't hurt me no more。〃
Fritzie let out a huge whoop and ran out of the cell to report his booty； DeWitt licked blood off his lips and looked at me； his dog master now that Vogel was gone。 I said； 〃Finish up on you and Lee Blanchard。 And don't get hysterical this time。〃
De Witt said； 〃Sir； all that's between me and Blanchard is that I fucked this cunt Kay Lake。〃
I remember moving toward him and I remember picking him up two…handed by the neck； wondering how hard you had to squeeze a dog's throat to make its eyeballs pop out。 I remember him changing color and voices in Spanish； and Fritzie shouting； 〃His story checks。〃 Then I remember being hurled backward； thinking； so that's what bars feel like。 Then I remember nothing。
* * *
I came to thinking I'd been knocked down in a third Bleichert…Blanchard fight； wondering how much hurt I'd put on my partner。 I babbled； 〃Lee？ Lee？ Are you all right？〃 then sighted in on two greaser cops with ridiculous dime store regalia on their blackshirts。 Fritzie Vogel towered over them； saying； 〃I let Bobby boy go so we could tail him to his pal。 But he blew the tail while you were catching up on your beauty sleep； which was too bad for him。〃
Someone hugely strong lifted me up off the cell floor； ing out of my haze I knew it had to be Big Bill Koenig。 Woozy and rubber…legged； I let Fritzie and the Mex cops lead me through the station and outside。 It was dusk； and the TJ sky was already lit with neon。 A Studebaker patrol car pulled up； Fritzie and Bill ushered me into the backseat。 The driver hit the loudest siren the world had ever heard； then gunned it。
We drove west out of town； stopping in the gravel center of a horseshoe…shaped auto court。 TJ cops in khakis and jodhpurs were standing guard in front of a back unit； holding pump shotguns。 Fritzie winked and offered me his arm to lean on； I spurned it and got out of the car under my own steam。 Fritzie led the way over； the cops saluted us with their gun barrels； then opened the door。
The room was a cordite…reeking slaughterhouse。 Bobby De Witt and a Mexican man lay dead on the floor； bullet holes oozing blood all over them。 Brain spatters leaking fluid covered one entire wall； De Witt's neck was bruised from where I'd been throttling him。 My first coherent thought was that I'd done it during my blackout； vigilante vengeance to protect the only two people I loved。 Fritzie must have been a mind reader； because he laughed and said； 〃Not you； boyo。 The spic is Felix Casco； a known dope trafficker。 Maybe it was other dope scum； maybe it was Lee； maybe it was God。 I say let our Mexican colleagues handle their own dirty laundry and let's us go back to LA and get the son of a bitch who sliced the Dahlia。〃
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Bobby De Witt's murder got a half column in the LA Mirror； I got a day off from a surprisingly solicitious Ellis Loew； Lee's disappearance got a squad of Metropolitan Division cops full…time。
I spent most of the day off in Captain Jack's office； being interrogated by them。 They asked me hundreds of questions about Lee…from the reasons for his outbursts at the stag film and La Verne's Hideaway； to his obsession with the Short case； to the Nash memo and his shack job with Kay。 I played fast and loose with facts； and lied by omission…keeping it zipped about Lee's Benzedrine use； his file room at the El Nido Hotel and the fact that his cohabitation was chaste。 The Metro bulls repeatedly asked me if I thought Lee killed Bobby De Witt and Felix Chasco； I repeatedly told them he wasn't capable of murder。 Asked for an interpretation of my partner's flight； I told them about beating Lee up over the Nash job； adding that he was an ex…boxer； maybe soon to be an ex…cop； too old to go back to fighting； too volatile to live a squarejohn life…and the Mexican interior was probably as good a place as any for a man like that。 As the interrogation wound down； I sensed that the officers weren't interested in securing Lee's safety…they were building a case for his LAPD expulsion。 I was repeatedly told not to stick my nose in their investigation and each time I agreed I dug my fingers into my palms to keep from hurling insults and worse。
From City Hall I went to see Kay。 Two Metro goons had already paid her a visit； putting her through the wringer about her life with Lee； rehashing her old life with Bobby De Witt。 The iceberg look she gave me said I was slime for belonging to the same police department； when I tried to fort her and offer words of encouragement about Lee's return； she said； 〃And all that；〃 and pushed me away。
I checked out room 204 of the El Nido Hotel then； hoping for some kind of message； some kind of clue that said； 〃I'll be back； and the three of us will keep going。〃 What I found was a shrine to Elizabeth Short。
The room was a typical Hollywood bachelor flop： Murphy bed； sink； tiny closet。 But the walls were adorned with Betty Short portrait pictures； newspaper and magazine photos； horror glossies from 39th and Norton； dozens of them enlarged to magnify every gruesome detail。 The bed was covered with cardboard boxes…an entire detective's case file； with carbons of miscellaneous memos； tip lists； evidence indexes； FIs and questioning reports all cross…filed alphabetically。
Having nothing to do and no one to do it with； I leafed through the folders。 The bulk of the information was staggering； the manpower behind it more staggering； the fact that it was all over one silly girl the most staggering of all。 I didn't know whether to toast Betty Short or rip her off the walls； so I badged the desk clerk on my way out； paid him a month's rent in advance and kept the room like I promised Millard and Sears…even though I was really holding it for Sergeant Leland C。 Blanchard。
Who was somewh