Shades of Blue: Book #1 in the Mike Montego Series

By Jess Waid

It's 1961. The Berlin Wall goes up, the Bay of Pigs invasion flops, punks cruise the Boulevard with their tops down blasting Chubby Checker's "Pony Time," and women are being savagely butchered on LAPD cop Mike Montego's beat. Something's got to give, and it won't be Montego.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Woodruff Enterprises, Inc.
• Release date: May 27, 2014
• ISBN: 9780692336489

Jess Waid

In his novels, Jess Waid draws upon his twenty-two years of experience as an LAPD cop. He worked the streets of Hollywood in the early 'sixties and retired as a Lieutenant II, in Robbery-Homicide Division. While his works are fiction, many of his characters are based on composites of officers he worked with. His stories, in many instances, are based on actual cases. Jess and his wife Barbara live in the Guadalajara area of Mexico.

Book preview

Shades of

Blue

Jess Waid

Published in 2012 Copyright © 2012 by Jess Waid

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews, without the prior written consent of the author.

For further information or to purchase a book, visit www.jesswaid.com.

Printed in the United States of America

Dedication

For Gladys Ruth Waid

An accomplished woman,

A loving mother

Mike Montego novels by Jess Waid

Shades of Blue

459 – Framed in Red

The Purple Hand

He Blew Blue Jazz

Acknowledgments

This novel would never have been completed without the loving support of my beautiful wife, Barbara. Her love, patience, and understanding—awesome. And I know she will be there when I strike the keyboard to begin my next story.

Chapter One

Wednesday, November 1, 1961 – Midnight

It was the laughter that did it. It was the throaty, lewdly lascivious laughter that first woke me in the middle of the night from a deep sleep. Blinking, stumbling down the darkened corridor, still more asleep than awake. . . . First came the shock of discovery. Then the nightmares. The laughter haunted me, drove me to despair, I was helpless, maddened—then entered Dr. Omega. He soon put a stop to Alpha’s wantonly riotous revelry, and the next night, Beta’s. His methods were macabre, but resulted in years of peace.

Then out of nowhere emerged Gamma and Delta, taunting me, tormenting me, just as Alpha and Beta had done, so many years before. When I thought I could stand no more, a presence stepped from the shadows, an old and terrifying friend, smiling grimly, taking charge, ending the laughter and with it, the madness. But peace came with a price. The good Doctor forced me to watch, in fascinated horror, every grisly detail as it unfolded. Then he took me by the hand, whispering that more is better, more is essential if the laughter is to ever stop, this time forever. Last night it was Epsilon. Tonight, Zeta. The Doctor is, after all, always right.

Thursday, November 2, 1961 – 0155 hours

"Six-Adam-Eleven, see the woman, prowler there now, 2211Crest Way—Code Two."

The crackling radio snapped officer Mike Montego back to attention. His mind had wandered to last night’s game at Memorial Sports Arena, where the lazy Lakers had won by five points over the Cincinnati Royals. Giving six points was stupid, there goes ten bucks down the toilet, Montego thought irritably as he grabbed the mic, keyed it and mumbled A-Eleven, roger, then noisily re-racked the dash-mounted handset.

His partner, Trev Brannock, sped the unit to their urgent call in the Hollywood Hills. Minutes later, Brannock idled the black-and-white around the corner with headlights off.

Stop, Trev. Montego popped open his door. Go down to Ivarene, block his route in case he heads that way. Something had briefly glinted, catching his eye, then he thought he’d seen a dark figure gliding between their target house on Crest and the neighbors, heading downhill.

Montego raced to where the suspect had disappeared, quickly casting about his flashlight beam. A dog barked. No sign of the prowler, but he found a break in the thicket, and signs of a faint footpath. It angled down sharply, it would be tricky in daylight, treacherous at night. He scanned the darkness for any reflection, alert for the slightest hint that something other than bushes and dirt awaited him below. Nothing. But the guy had to be somewhere down there. A gut-level tickle kept Montego from rushing headlong down the steep path.

Switching off the light, he crouched, held his breath, and listened for any sort of sound others might miss but he had trained himself to hear. There it was; a crackling below him. Another dog barked.

The bastard must be at Ivarene already.

Montego switched the flashlight on again and hurled himself down the hill, raising an arm to protect his face from the thorns that tore at him. He came out on a poorly lit street, his scratched cheek burning. Nothing moved. Then he heard a faint rustling, swiftly followed by a deep snarling.

A dog crashed against a nearby chain link fence—a good guard dog, and pissed off, too.

Montego leaped an intersecting fence in the direction of the sounds. The canine was going crazy. Searching the undergrowth ahead of him, Montego spotted a trace of path, and scrambled down it. A few strides, then suddenly his right foot found a loose stone. His ankle turned. He fought for balance, failed, and fell. He hit the ground hard, then rolled into a stump, killing the light and knocking the wind out of him.

Groping around in the dry undergrowth, he found his flashlight. He shook it. Nothing. He got gingerly to his feet, willing his heart to beat slower. He gave the light a final rap against his palm. Still nothing. He sucked in the night air.

In the near distance, a slamming noise followed by a motor revving, the rumble of a V8 and squealing tires caught his attention.

"Tanto, he muttered the safe" swear learned as a foster kid to avoid tasting green Palmolive soap every other time he opened his mouth.

Standing there in the dark, goose bumps rose on the back of his neck, followed by a shiver. There was something about this situation that stirred a deeply held childhood memory he’d rather stay forgotten. He shook his head to snap himself out of it, and listened for Brannock and the squad car. Not hearing it, he limped his way down to the next street, Holly Drive.

The unmistakable sound of another V8 broke the sudden silence, this time headed straight for him.

Montego turned and squinted, putting a hand up in front of his eyes as his partner captured him in their unit’s high beams.

Lose him? Brannock called out through the driver’s side window.

You see anyone in cuffs, partner? Montego thought with more than a little irritation.

Yep, ’fraid I did. I slipped. Busted my light. Bastard’s in North Hollywood by now. Montego slid onto the gray vinyl seat and slammed the car door.

You got good eyes, Tonto, ’cause I never saw anyone except your bouncing light crossing Ivarene—figured I’d find you down here. 

Montego didn’t mind being called Tonto. He’d picked up the tag as a kid, thanks to his unique manner of swearing. The son of a Mexican dancer, he often blurted tanto peor, meaning so much the worse, when excited or pissed. Mostly he’d simply exclaim, tanto, and the nickname was born—Anglos heard Tonto. With his olive complexion, the link-up to the Lone Ranger’s faithful Indian companion was inevitable.

You heard the dogs yapping, didn’t you, Trev?

Yeah, after you started running up the road.

Let’s head to the PR’s pad.

Brannock backed the nearly year-old Plymouth along Holly to Primrose Avenue, then swung east to Willetta, and north to Crest Way, stopping in front of number 2211.

The Person Reporting turned out to be a little old lady with bluish hair holding a yapping black toy poodle. She invited them inside where she served a plate full of Toll House cookies straight from the Nabisco box, and a steaming pot of Earl Grey tea. The tiny yapper lay at her feet, his wary eyes unwaveringly locked on the cops.

When asked what she’d observed, she replied, I didn’t see anyone, but Beauregard heard a sneaky someone outside. My brave little boy barked.

Friday, November 3, 1961 – 1321 hours

Six-Whiskey-One—stand by L-Five, we’re minutes away. Detective-Sergeant Alex Strait cradled the transmitter. He’d asked Communications to have the one-man radio unit switch to the tactical frequency used by detectives.

I’ve got a heavy donut and cold coffee feeling about this one.

Detective-Sergeant Wayne Nells grunted as he turned their unmarked sedan north toward the steep hillside neighborhood. He pulled onto Crest, a cul-de-sac, and told his taller partner, Good, the uniform’s got the area secured. Thank God no old-school street cop has told him to forget all the crap" they teach at the Academy and do it his way—the real way."

Alex Strait half-grinned and grabbed his legal-size clipboard with lined yellow pad. He checked his wristwatch then jotted down: Friday, sunny—TOA: 11/3/61–1326 hours. Unit 6-L-5, Officer #_________,_________ Serial #________,_ reporting a DB, dead body at 2214 Crest Way.

Stepping from the car, he greeted the patrol officer, got his full name and serial number, and carefully wrote the info on the empty lines in neat, block letters.

The kid’s a probationer—they got five digit numbers now—I’m getting old. Damn, thought a vaguely irritated Alex as he finished writing, clipboard now at his side.

He turned to the young cop, he said, OK, first things first, Officer Zappalini. Who’s the PR?

Wouldn’t you know it, sir—my last shift working a one-man Lincoln unit and I get a nasty-ass one—oh, ah, that’s the person reporting, that old gal over there.

Following the direction of Augie Zappalini’s pointing index finger, Alex heard a yipping dog, then quickly spotted a little poodle collared in rhinestones, yo-yoing on the end of a long pink leash gripped by an elderly woman with light blue hair.

He walked to the front porch where the frail old gal and her miniature mutt were perched. Hello, ma’am. Did you call the police?

Yes, officer, I’m so worried—I didn’t see Nola out washing her car this morning, she always cleans and polishes it on Fridays, she likes it pretty for the weekend. Oh dear, I’m afraid for her. We had a prowler Wednesday, around midnight, you know—I phoned the police.

What’s Nola’s last name, ma’am, and which house is hers?

Hunter. Her name is Nola Hunter. She lives right next door. Clutching the nasty-looking little dog to her sagging bosom with her left hand, she aimed a shaky, arthritic right index finger toward a single-story house with a red tile roof.

I just feel something is terribly wrong. My dear little Beauregard here (at this she paused to squeeze the poodle even closer to her chest—Alex was certain he saw the dog roll its beady little eyes in pissed-off resignation), my sweet little Muffin Man is so upset. He really does like Miss Nola. She lives all alone, poor girl.

All right, thanks for the information, ma’am. Please stay here while I go check on Miss Hunter.

Alex reached out to give the elderly woman a reassuring pat on the arm, a move that sent Beauregard into a whirling tizzy. He yanked his hand back quickly, then turned and headed back to the narrow street where his shorter partner and the probationer stood.

He eyed the blue-suit. Zappalini. Nobody calls you that, right? What name do you go by?

Augie, short for Augustus, or Augie Z—some call me Zapper.

"Well, Augie Z—and I won’t ask you to explain Zapper—please tell us exactly when you arrived and what you’ve done so far."

I arrived at the PR’s place at 1310 hours. She told me she was worried about her neighbor. Zappalini pointed to the red-roofed house. I went over and knocked but got no answer. I went along the side of the building and found an unlatched window. I smelled something raunchy, so I climbed through. Probably should’ve called for you first, didn’t want to though if it wasn’t necessary. Anyway, I dropped into a freestanding bathtub, then went into a hallway. It was hotter than hell inside.

He glanced at the old lady, who’d left the porch and edged closer, the little dog, his ears perked, now tightly held in both her thin arms.

One look inside the bedroom and a nasty whiff and I was outta there, belly bile bubbling. I came back out through the window, went to my car and radioed for a Whiskey Unit. Did I screw up?

You did fine, Augie Z, you did just fine, Alex said. The self-proclaimed master of alliteration gave the rookie an approving look as he jotted down the information. He turned and told the old lady, Please go back home, ma’am.

He and Nells then studied the perimeter of the Hunter residence, noting the window where the patrol officer said he’d entered and exited.

Alex pulled out his lock picks and soon had the back door open. Moving carefully, the detectives entered. Their noses instantly wrinkled as they eased from room to room, closing in on the source of the stench. All the while, Alex took notes of their observations, fighting the putrid odor and excessive heat that sped up the rotting process, dreading what he was about to come upon. No matter how many times, you never got used to it.

Wayne Nells fumbled a handkerchief free of a plastic bag, then placed the cloth over his nose and mouth. The donut just sank, he mumbled.

Yeah, and my coffee’s iced up.

Alex pretended he was sucking on the soggy end of a big Cuban cigar. The thought of harsh tobacco smoke helped him suffer through the reek of death. He’d forgotten to pack a treated painter’s mask—a big mistake. In the beginning of their long-time partnership, he’d been impressed by how well Wayne handled the stink of rotting flesh and guts. His senior partner seemed immune to smells that made the younger Alex want to run retching from the scene.

It took only one nasty smelling homicide before he learned Wayne kept a mentholated handkerchief bagged in an inside coat pocket. Smart man.

They paused at a hall doorway, left slightly ajar. Alex loosened his tie and yanked out his handkerchief. Like the probie had said, Hot as hell.

Wayne pulled another handkerchief from his rear pocket, and used it to push the bedroom door all the way open

Alex peered over his partner’s left shoulder. He shuddered, appalled by the sight. Both detectives stepped back, exhaled audibly as they eyed each other knowingly.

Nola’s cadaveric, he muttered into his kerchief. There was nothing else to say.

Chapter Two

Friday, November 3, 1961 – 2345 hours

"All units stand by—pursuit! FT-1 is in pursuit of two 211 suspects from the liquor store at 700 South Central. FT-1, your location?"

Mike Montego knew the Freeway Traffic unit’s ID number. That’s Big Jim Wheeler, he said to his partner, and turned the radio volume up.

"All units, FT-1 is northbound on the Hollywood Freeway passing Silverlake. Robbery suspects are driving a ’61 Chevrolet Impala, two-door, black in color, at a high rate of speed."

Montego floored their black-and-white. The freeway was four blocks east of their current location on Sunset Boulevard.

‘Wheels’—Big Jim—was my partner until three days ago, Montego stated flatly as he hammered the pedal down, heading for the off-ramp. "All units—FT-1 reports suspects’ vehicle left the freeway at Serrano. FT-1, have you got a license number?. . . . FT-1 reports license plate unreadable. FT-1, any further?. . . . Roger—overturned vehicle—requesting rescue ambulance and fire. Frequency One is clear."

We’ll never make it in time, Tonto, the suspects’re too far ahead.

Montego was more concerned about the apparent traffic accident that his ex-partner was likely dealing with right now. He veered the roaring Plymouth down the southbound freeway on-ramp, then floored it the one mile to the accident scene.

Put us Code Six, Trev.

He braked alongside the center divider as Brannock radioed in. Flames were showing below a light blue, rear-engine Corvair—it had obviously rolled. Jim Wheeler was at the small Chevy’s driver’s side. His partner was laying a protective flare pattern, warning oncoming traffic.

Montego and Brannock cleared the road-dividing, six-foot chain-link fence and darted through the slowing northbound cars, rushing to the overturned vehicle. A person trapped inside, pounded on the side window glass. The low angle made it hard to see if it was a male or female.

Jim Wheeler grunted while he continued yanking on the jammed door handle.

Won’t give! He banged at the window glass with a gloved fist, then booted it with his hard heel. No go. Flames flared up the rear sides of the crumpled coupe. Too hot. The lanky cop moved back, coughing.

Montego took a deep breath and gave the driver’s window a hard kick, yelling, "Kiai!" as he kicked. The glass cobwebbed, allowing faint screaming to be heard. He looked closer and spied a second person with long hair also on the front seat, on the other side of the driver.

Oh shit—a boy and a girl—teenagers!

Flames lashed out, scorching Montego’s lungs. Acrid smoke blurred his vision. In the middle of another slamming kick, Wheeler and Brannock yanked him back.

Montego’s last image was the boy’s palm placed flat and blistering against the window, his contorted mouth, his terrified look clearly registering impending horror—then flames engulfed the car, obscuring the good-as-dead young occupants.

Too late, it might blow—c’mon, Brannock yelled.

He and Wheeler, keeping a firm grip on a stiffened Montego, pulled him away. The trio joined Wheeler’s partner at the FT unit’s driver’s side rear door, placing the nearly empty wooden flare box on the rear seat.

The ululating siren of a fast approaching fire truck wailed. Traffic had stopped, people gawked.

The Corvair didn’t blow—it melted.

The three cops, arms grasping each other, watched in horror, their sweaty faces aglow, their gasps, audible.

Saturday, November 4, 1961 – 0320 hours

Montego, wearing 501 Levi’s and a well broken-in blue plaid Pendleton shirt, had gone EOW, end-of-watch. Securing his metal locker, he drove his ’58 Chevrolet pickup, the Cameo model, east to El Triste Toro.

The Sad Bull, a Mexican restaurant, was situated east of the concrete-banked Los Angeles River, just shy of the Glendale city limits. High above several pinion pines, a large black plastic bull marked the spot. Although dark inside the restaurant, the bull stayed brightly lit. Noon. Middle of the night. Didn’t matter, the bull remained plugged in. Sparkling tears dropped from its lidded eyes, (thus the name), while a flashing hoof pointed to a street level parking area. Montego ignored the hoofed hint and drove down to the lower rear lot and parked.

He pulled out his treasured old silver pocket Bulova. It was half-past the desperate hours, the sweet spot of the weekly velada, the gathering, when some of L.A.’s finest and their guests, mostly women, partied ’til dawn.

The Bulova shoved back in his watch pocket, Montego shifted on his tucked-and-rolled seat at the sound of Jim Wheeler’s aqua green-and-ivory colored ’57 Chevy Nomad as it entered the narrow drive into the restaurant lot from Los Feliz Boulevard. Wheeler slipped the distinctive wagon into a nearby space.

Big Jim killed the headlights, and eased his long frame from the vehicle. His tall, angular figure glided ghost-like toward Montego’s opening door, the slivered Angeleno moon adding to the movie-like effect.

Let’s do it, Tonto, Wheeler drawled, closing the gap between the two men.

The three-inch stacked heels of his Noconos jacked up the already-towering Wheeler a full eight inches over Montego’s six-foot-one frame. Montego had never seen the NBA-sized Nebraskan without cowboy boots on, except when he was in uniform—and even then he would have worn them if he’d thought he could get away with it. Another inch—without the Noconos—and Wheeler wouldn’t have made the LAPD’s height limit.

Unlike many tall men, Jim Wheeler didn’t slouch.

Sliding off the custom stitched red-and-white Naugahyde seat, Montego slammed his door. Wheeler’s large left hand dropped warmly on his shoulder. The sound of hard leather heels, clopping in rhythm with the subdued squeaks of Montego’s ox-blood huaraches, echoed through the restaurant’s rear arched entry as they strode through it, side-by-side.

Wheeler opened an imposing eight-foot, solid oak door, triggering a recorded trumpet, alerting the bulls below.

They strode down a wide, curving stairway, heels striking twenty tiled steps while their fingers brushed over protruding used-bricks that served as a banister, inset at an angle in the stairwell’s rough-stucco walls.

At the bottom landing, in front of another oak-and-iron door, Montego gestured with mock solemnity. Be my guest, Wheels.

Wheeler lifted a wrought-iron ring, and let it fall with a bang. When the electric lock sputtered, he pushed. The handcrafted door swung wide, activating a hidden speaker. A loud Olé, and an unseen crowd’s roaring acclaim ensured the veladans on the other side of the door knew someone was entering their private domain.

It was a large room—La Arena de los Toros—known by locals simply as the Arena. Cops, more interested in sports or irony than ethnicity, called it the Pen, short for the Bull Pen. It was a so-called bottle club, from two to six a.m., meaning the cops bought bottles and kegs of beer that were stored in house. Supposedly, they drank their own booze while paying rent for each drink during the early morning hours. Silly perhaps, but it avoided legal hassles.

The place was bustling. The piquant smells of corn chips and salsa, smoke, booze, and warm bodies mingled with the lingering aromas of refried beans and burritos wafting down from the kitchen upstairs.

The room’s high-vaulted ceiling absorbed much of the crowd noise. The rounded bar had two brass rails, an upper one running along the countertop’s outer edge, the lower one a well-placed footrest.

Montego and Wheeler found an open spot at the bar, easing into a chattering mix of off-duty cops, and women wearing the latest hairstyles and too much makeup.

"Dos oros con lima, y dos Buds—spare the salt, Rico."

The dark-complexioned bartender nodded in recognition at Montego, the motion causing his longish, well-oiled black hair to cast a purplish-blue hue. His narrow-hipped body spun, and he deftly reached up and grabbed an amber bottle of José Cuervo Gold téquila from the top shelf.

Montego glanced around. Several glued-together couples swayed off-beat on a postage stamp-sized hardwood floor, their shuffling feet fueled by booze and mariachi music pouring out of the bubbly Wurlitzer recessed in a nearby alcove.

"Dos tequilas de oros con lima y dos cervezas, Miguel," Ricardo said, placing the two shooters and Buds on the counter.

The barkeep, aware of Montego’s half-Mexican blood, often teased him about his blue eyes. Montego told him his Norwegian mother had assured him he had the eyes of a heroic Viking. Rico suggested a stupid, drunken, pillaging Hun was more likely to be found somewhere near the bottom of the Montego family woodpile.

Montego tossed a fiver onto the smooth mahogany bar along with a "Gracias, Rico." He waved off the change, turned and looked out across the room at the tables on the raised banquette along the wall.

Where’s ‘Mr. Homicide’?

Eagon and Roy got called out a little while ago, Rico said.

Montego often came to the velada simply to shoot the shit with Eagon Quinn, whom he considered his mentor, and Roy O’Brody, Quinn’s partner. The two downtown homicide detectives always wore traditional 1940’s-style fedoras, brown or gray, raked over their skeptical eyes. Right out of central casting for a film noir.

Big Jim shot down the Cuervo Gold and gunned his beer in sync with Montego, who quickly ordered a second shot. He glanced inquiringly at Wheeler, who indicated he was good, so the order remained a singleton.

Did the two-eleven assholes cause the crash, Wheels?

Wheeler sighed.

An idiot decided to take the same off-ramp as the robbery suspects—cut across three lanes to do it—nearly sideswiped me. I was swervin’ all over the place, ’tween avoidin’ him and the barricades. Bastard clipped the little Corvair, flipped it twice like my mom’s flapjacks on a Saturday morning.’ You know the rest. He pulled a red paisley bandanna out of a hip pocket and wiped his nose.

Montego felt a pang.

No wonder the suspects got away.

He’d ignored the recorded tantara and subsequent olé, but a rare silence suddenly left only Sinatra’s voice crooning a final phrase wafting from the Wurlitzer. Patrons around the bar were staring toward the entry behind him. Even the billiards players, drawn by the silence, had stuck their heads out from a side room near the jukebox to see what was happening.

Montego and Wheeler spun around on their barstools, bumping elbows.

Through the smoky haze stood a blue-uniformed black man. The veladans had never seen a person of color at a gathering—this was a bar situated on the border of lily-white Glendale, and it was well after sundown.

Though the black cop’s appearance shocked most of the tipsy crowd, it was a pleasant surprise for Montego. This particular policeman, who looked like the burly pro footballer Jim Brown’s bigger and stronger twin, had graduated from the Los Angeles Police Academy with him.

Kirtland Wellington Deal was quiet and tough, not a guy to be intimidated. Most classmates had steered clear of him. Not Montego.

Deal was slow to socialize, but Montego’s openness and their fierce rivalry on the athletic field, where they had vied for the Academy’s physical fitness record, won the day. Deal lost the title, but won a friend in the narrowly victorious Montego. By the end of their twelve-week training period, it was Kay Dub and Tonto.

Deal stood tall inside the Bull Pen door as he stoically scanned the gaping faces. He focused on no one in particular, but when he spoke, everyone heard him. His words stunned the crowd, and swiftly subdued the pleasure Montego felt at seeing his classmate.

Name is KW Deal. I’m new to the Sixth—Hollywood. I work the mid-watch. He paused for a moment, looking around the room, then continued. "Stopped by as a courtesy to those of you who are LAPD. We just had a bad shooting, one of ours. Carlo Antony caught a fatal round—had over twenty years on the job."

Stunned silence.

Happened on Riverside, by Los Feliz. KW cleared a catch in his throat. Bernie Tydowski, Antony’s long-time partner, dropped the shooter on the spot. Cold-cocked the second sonofabitch. You might’ve heard about the two-eleven down on Central—the subsequent pursuit—same suspects.

Suppressed mumbling spread through the room. Several "shits" were heard. A veteran cop, a fellow blue-suit, had been slain on a street many of them had patrolled, not far from where they now partied.

Jim Wheeler snatched his rumpled bandanna back out of his pocket and blew his nose noisily.

Who says cops don’t cry?

Anguish surged through Montego. It explained why Quinn and O’Brody weren’t there.

Chastened cops either swigged beer from long-necked bottles, or self-consciously gulped various brands of booze.

KW shifted his feet. Antony was about to pull the pin, leave the job to his boy—Carlo Jr.’s finishing up his probation in Newton where I transferred in from.

The bearer of bad tidings turned to leave.

Montego called out, Kay Dub!

Deal stopped and turned, scanning the throng with reddened eyes, his somber face soon transformed by a wide smile. He swiftly crossed the hazy room to Montego.

Yo, Tonto-man, Deal rasped quietly, so few would pick up on the warmth between the two men.

Montego threw an arm around his Academy classmate and drew him close. KW did the same, a gesture of two men sharing a measure of love and mutual respect.

Facing each other at arms length, Montego said, "Good to see you, mi amigo, but your news is a real bitch. Hey, meet the guy towering over us, my partner when I was in AI, Jim Wheeler."

Wheeler shook KW’s hand while he glared at some nearby, alcohol-laden gawkers through misty eyes, his level gaze stilling their careless murmurs.

KW, turning to Montego, said, You were a probie in Hollywood, right?

Yep, after my probation I did a year in the Seventy-seventh, then it was on to Accident Investigation. Montego decided not to mention that Wheeler’s unit was the one in pursuit of the liquor store robbers.

When did you get assigned to the Sixth, Kay Dub?

Same transfer as you, Tonto—you probably didn’t expect to see my name on it—surprised me, too. He grinned crookedly. Like I just told the house, came in from Newton, the lucky Thirteenth—also spent my probation down there. Expected the third-year of the ‘probie wheel’ to send me to AI Division. Guess they didn’t want me, though, did my second year in Wilshire.

Working am watch, huh? Haven’t seen you—but then I wasn’t looking. You thought about moving to mids? Maybe we could partner up, pal.

Fine with me—up to the lieutenant, though. He winked.

After KW left, Montego was surprised to hear Jim asking Rico for a second tequila shooter. His wife, Eilenne, didn’t like Jim to drink. Montego easily understood why tonight was different. Wheeler felt guilty about losing the robbery—now cop killer—suspects. Tonight’s events were cause enough for any policeman to feel compelled to slam shooters chased by cold brewskis.

With that thought, Montego said salud to no one in particular and finished off his own Cuervo Oro numero dos.

Chapter Three

Saturday, November 4, 1961 – 2212 hours

Montego and Brannock, responding to an Unknown Trouble call, pulled up in front of 5869 Canyon Cove. The PR, a middle-aged man, pointed to the Spanish-style house across the street.

Miss Clovis’ porch light is off, he said. Ever since her divorce she’s kept it on. My wife is at choir practice. I, er, I didn’t think it wise for me to go see if everything was all right. He blushed noticeably. That’s why I called you.

Montego gave the slight, prim man a knowingly compassionate smile.

No problem, sir. Glancing aside, he winked at Trev who was stifling a grin. We’ll see what’s what.

Brannock reminded Montego of his favorite comic strip hero, Kurly Kayo, the heavyweight champion he’d followed as a boy every afternoon in the Valley edition of the Citizen News. Montego’s ignorant fellow uniforms, apparently unfamiliar with Kayo’s obvious superiority, had tagged the heavily muscled, six-foot-two, 200 pound blond Brannock, Palooka, after a better known (but clearly inferior) cartoon boxer. Brannock was no palooka, he was one sharp cookie.

He joined Montego pacing up the street. Clovis has gotta be a looker for the old guy to be afraid to be alone with her.

The PR’s proper demeanor reminded Montego of a foster parent he’d had, another properly fastidious gentleman, somewhat uncomfortable around the fairer sex.

Brannock rang the doorbell several times. No response.

Place is quiet. What should we do?

Let’s check the rear. Montego glanced up, there was no moon.

Moving carefully through the darkness, they found a double-hung window at the back of the house. It was ajar.

Montego’s nostrils caught a foul smell. Stepping closer to the opening, a wave of heat caressed his face. He beamed a light into the inky interior. Following the bright circle around the room, he saw flowery wallpaper, typical feminine bedroom variety, a decent oil painting on the far wall, and a vase with wilted flowers on a four-drawer dresser. Next to the vase stood an ornate, gold-filigree framed color photo, featuring a sexy redhead lounging in a low-cut, black negligee. The provocative pose fit the plush bedroom.

Trev’s right—the PR was worried Miss Clovis might have had her way with him.

Brannock directed his light to the bed. The beam stilled, then wavered. Damn. He spun away, his shoulder grazing Montego.

I’ll call for a Whiskey unit, Montego said, and hurried to their Plymouth. He radioed the station, knowing the desk officer would get the divisional dicks on the move from their homes. After a half-dozen futile attempts to get through, he re-hooked the mic and returned to the house.

Brannock stood by the front door where the smell wasn’t as bad.

The Desk’s apparently not monitoring Tac One.

"I’ll go down the hill, find a Gamewell, Brannock replied, hustling off toward their vehicle.

Montego didn’t blame the guy for being in a hurry to leave the scene. He watched the red taillights disappearing down the hill toward Franklin and a locked, for-police-use-only phone box. Feeling a chill, he stepped next to a tall sycamore and leaned against it, relishing the faint sense of comfort and security its solid trunk provided.

His mind wandered dangerously, back to when he was a six-year-old. He was at his mother’s—it was a Saturday like this, he only saw his mother on weekends—he had barely fallen asleep when He first showed up. Then, just weeks before Montego’s tenth birthday—when he’d barely fallen asleep, He returned, just like before, a dark form floating out of the blackness, heading for the terrified nine-year-old’s bed.

Shuddering, he realized what he’d just seen in the house behind him had conjured up a memory he would far rather have left filed far, far away in some dusty lower drawer of his brain. He slapped the rough bark of the sycamore to remind himself he was no longer a sleepy, sensitive kid, he was a big boy now, and wide awake in the real world. To clear his mind, he crouched and began a breathing exercise designed to tame his emotions, bring him back to his center.

Spotting Brannock driving up, he rose and stretched, feeling a bit calmer.

2315 hours

Montego stood by the bedroom door watching Nells and Strait studying the crime scene—a Saturday night call, every detective’s worst weekend scenario.

Brannock was at a far post inside the front vestibule, yards away.

Alex Strait pulled at the curled tip of his baby handlebar, its size limited by the LAPD’s grooming standards. He displayed no emotion.

Montego believed if he could crawl into either detective’s head right now, he’d find apprehension, sense the same regret and dread every investigator feels when a sick killer strikes on his beat.

Staring at the deliberately positioned corpse, Montego’s gorge rose.

Alex would let him watch as long as Nells, a by-the-book brown-suit—the tag patrol officers gave all detectives, even the snappier dressers—didn’t get upset. The guy usually didn’t appreciate having uniforms milling around a homicide scene. As far as Wayne Nells was concerned, patrolmen belonged on the perimeter, back where Trev Brannock now stood. Nells contended uniforms had one job, and one job only at a crime scene: to protect the area from onlookers, usually other cops (and quite often the Department’s brass). Alex had mentioned to Montego more than once that LAPD inspectors and deputy chiefs had a nasty habit of showing up and disturbing physical evidence on a regular basis. Wannabe super-chiefs. Always looking to high-profile their names, was the way Alex put it.

This grisly homicide would certainly make banner headlines, would likely attract all sorts of attention, most of it unwanted. Montego figured this time the only departmental big shot likely to step up to the publicity plate was Chief William H. Parker, himself.

Chief Parker liked headlines, at least the ones he generated himself. He didn’t appreciate underlings or newsmen turning incidents into sensational stories, unless he said so.

Montego peered at the crime scene again. A large, round, black-framed mirror suspended by white chains secured to gold-hued hooks hung several inches below the glittery ceiling, directly above the equally round bed. Lengths of light, silky cloth formed a billowy, pale-blue fringe canopy. Apparently the deceased spent a lot of time in her bedroom.

He paid attention to how the detectives proceeded. Neither man had loosened his necktie, although Nells had pulled out his handkerchief, and Alex had slipped on a painter’s mask. The room was stifling. Sweat beaded on Montego’s forehead.

How can they be so cool? Get used to it hombre, if you ever hope to be a homicide detective.

Montego dreamed of one day being Alex Strait’s partner. With not quite four years on the job, he lacked the necessary patrol time, he needed more street experience—precisely the sort of savvy Strait could dish out.

Their buddies in Manhattan Beach called the long-serving detective Uncle Alex. He seemed to enjoy the handle, coming as it did from a circle of younger cops and county deputy sheriffs living in the beach town.

In turn, Alex called the tight group of local law enforcement types the Furry Clam Diggers. What the hell, the guy was old. Montego had an idea what the furry referred to, and the fact they gathered every Saturday at noon sharp in the small community of El Porto, just to the north at the Clam Digger Bar and Grille, made sense of the rest of the handle. Once at the Clam Digger, they downed numerous pitchers of cold suds and tucked into sloppy chiliburgers while sharing blatant lies about their extracurricular activities. They avoided talking shop. It cost a frothy pitcher of beer whenever someone violated the rule. Even a grisly homicide like this one was not something the boys would jaw about while relaxing over pitchers of brew at the Clam Digger. A man had to be able to get away from it all now and then.

Moving to the doorway, Strait mumbled cadaverous through the paper mask. He pointed. This nurse’s cap is different than the one we found with the other victim. Nola’s was a winged style.

What? Montego chilled. Another headless vic?

Wayne Nells spoke through his handkerchief. Yeah, Montego—two heads, one week, zero leads.

Where was the other one? Montego asked, as he pressed his handkerchief over his nose.

Up on Crest Way—a probie discovered her body.

Was the PR an old lady, bluish hair? Montego held his breath.

Alex cast a sharp eye at Montego. Yes.

"Tanto—we got a prowler call there Wednesday after midnight. We—actually it was me who saw the suspect, chased after him but he got away. Montego spread a thumb and forefinger apart, their tips nearly touching. I was that close and didn’t catch him."

Alex stopped his note