I

Bud White had picked her up at his usual bar, a shabby saloon at the wrong end of the Strip, somewhere he did not expect to run into anyone who might know him, or ever see the sort of woman he was prepared to go with on nights when he just couldn't take it anymore.  It was the kind of place where there were no regulars, just passing trade, lonely people looking for something to make the night a little less lonesome. It was a waiting room to hell, full of people on their way to ruin.

The girl had been sitting at the bar, drinking martinis and chain smoking, a pretty woman, more alluring than the usual bar flies. He had noticed her straight off after scoping the room quickly on entry with his practiced eye. Something told him to stay away but instead he found himself sidling up, taking the neighboring stool, staring straight ahead as he ordered Scotch and drinking the slug down in one as though the bite of liquor might give him courage for this exchange.

"You want a cigarette?" she had asked him, flipping her packet his way. He shook his head. They drank in silence. He called for another shot, indicating the bartender should fill up her glass on his tab without saying a word other than a jerk of his glass and a nod towards her.

"Hey thanks, pal," she muttered as the drinks were set down. He nodded and carried on staring into space, aware that she was now observing him closely. "You don't say much, do you?"

"What's to say?" he muttered, standing up and throwing a few bills on the bar top, suddenly deciding he wasn't going through with it. She was just a girl up close, not the usual blowsy blonde older woman who knew the score. Either he would mess her up more than she was already or she would get clingy. He could do without both those outcomes.

"You leaving?" she asked him, a hint of desperation showing in her voice despite the bravado.

"It's late. I'm tired."

"Come to bed with me. That way we both might get some rest tonight, huh?

He stopped dead at her open offer, looking back at her, then quickly away again. "You don't know shit about me. You sure that's wise to make a stranger an offer like that?"

The woman hunched her shoulders, grinding out her cigarette and swallowing the last of her drink as she stood up, gathered up her purse, cigarette case and lighter and turned towards the door. "You coming or not, buster? Or you scared I'm gonna roll you...?" she threw at him without even looking back.

She walked ahead, swinging her hips a little too much, revealing her inebriation, but not yet out of control. The Scotch was hitting his head too, two large belts on an empty stomach. He wasn't much of a drinker at the best of times.

The woman still didn't look back as she reached the door and sashayed through it. Either she knew he was following or she didn't much care either way. 

Bud found that his legs were moving his body in her direction even though his brain had told him to stay put. Tonight his libido was in charge. He gave up without much of a fight. The girl was offering it for free. She didn't seem like this was the first time either. It wasn't his problem.

Later, much later, in a tawdry motel room nearby, he rammed into her as she lay jerking beneath him, her thin body wrapped around him, her head lolling back. The cheap perfume she wore nauseated him and only barely disguised the smell of booze, cigarettes and sweat. She was none too clean. He was none too fastidious tonight but even so, he couldn't quite stop his stomach from turning over at the sordid little episode. They had barely exchanged more than a few words.

She had turned her head away from his attempt to kiss her - and he had felt relief at that. It was an intimacy too far. So he had just pushed up her dress and pulled down her panties and set to work, unsure whether her moans were appreciative or not. Whatever she was getting out of this, he didn't think it was pleasure. Neither was he. This was about something else than joy, some unpleasant drive that he didn't quite care to examine but that he was pretty sure wasn't anything good.

Closing his eyes to shut out the image of her face, burying his own against the thin pillow to stifle his groans and block the scent of this unknown woman, he let himself take what he needed from her - and then rolled away. All he could think of now was getting away. As he turned his back and pulled on his pants, he felt her move on the bed, snagging her cigarettes from the nightstand and lighting up. "You paid the hotel for a whole night. I thought you wanted to sleep..." she observed.

"Got my own bed," he answered gruffly as he buttoned up his shirt.

"Thanks for the drink anyway. See you around sometime, huh?"

And he walked out without turning back, without seeing her naked body or ever finding out who she was or where she came from. Outside on the street, he gulped fresh air and steadied himself against the wall, fighting the urge to vomit. Sweat beaded on his brow. Then he straightened up, fixed his tie and walked briskly to where he had left his car. He had already begun to forget. He couldn't even remember her face already...

II

The air inside the locker room was always stale. The distinctive odor of nervous sweat seemed to pile up like so many forgotten mounds of used towels.

Det. Bud White sat before his locker, running the bristles of his stiff brush over his head, smoothing out the stubs of cropped hair after his shower. The hard drill of water from lime-crusted spigots had felt good to his tired muscles following a bruising round of pick up basketball in the department's gym before the shift began. Somehow, washing off after the furious exercise had begun to seem futile to Bud. He doubted it was possible to get out of this room without some of that ageless stench clinging to him, even after scrubbing his skin with soap. Nothing but filthy air inside this closed-in world.

Male voices rose and fell around him as more and more officers strode in, getting themselves ready for duty. They all faded to monotony for Bud.

He could remember when he'd gotten a measure of satisfaction to be in this fraternity. Locker room back then had felt cleaner, he thought to himself. Now he couldn't remember with much clarity the various conversations he'd hear in here from day-to-day. Seemed like they all ran into each other, leaking across their boundaries, their distinct lines impossible for Bud to distinguish lately.

Rising, he adjusted himself and then reached into the locker, grabbing for his dark brown tie. Swiftly, it was wrapped round his collar, knotted and shoved into its final position. His chin rose; he breathed in deeply of the decayed air.

And then he closed the locker, a soft force that gentled it firmly into place with barely a sound.

One of his first partners had had a locker next to Bud when they were riding together. He never got tired of remarking to Bud and whoever else was listening about how a big brute of a man like Bud could close that locker like a dainty lady of class.

Bud walked out of the locker room, giving a word or a nod of greeting to his fellow detectives along the way. His regular partner was off on some R&R for the next few weeks to recover from a bullet he'd taken on the job. He'd come close to losing Stens this time. Bud had felt oddly adrift ever since, shaken that an almost casual brush with death had nearly taken a man he'd only then realized was a true friend as well as partner.

Until Stens was back on duty, Bud was working cases with a new transfer from Pomona by name of Ricky Dorster. This would be their second night riding together on calls.

In the roll call room, Bud grabbed a chair in the row behind Dorster. He stared idly at the back of his cleanly shaved neck. So far, about all he knew about Dorster was that he had a little girl and another baby on the way, that he went to church, that he was one of those college boys, and that he cheated on his wife.

He'd shown Bud a picture of his family when they'd been going over the active case files. Repetitious for Bud but necessary to get Dorster up to speed. Bud's immediate thought when he saw the picture, when the family was made real just by being in that picture Dorster carried in his wallet, was this: what makes some men so careless with their good and easy fortune?

Wasn't a judgment; was just Bud's gut reaction.

Tonight's roll call briefing held no surprises, no big cases; just the usual mix of robberies, batteries, scams and trash. That meant there'd be time for Bud and Dorster to run down a bit more leads on a homicide involving two Mexican workers knifed, slit necks, just after payday outside a bar over near the new stadium.

"You ready to roll, partner?" Dorster said as he popped up out of his chair once Lt. Dudley Smith had rapped the briefing finished and sent them all on their way. "I got some new ideas on that case with the Feidle break in-seems to me, we need to lean on the son-in-law and I..."

"We're heading out on the Mexicans," Bud said. His eyes didn't waver from their sharp look into Dorster.

"But that's all the way in the..."

"Know where it's at. I'll drive."

"But the Captain'd be a lot happier if we solve the Feidle case."

Bud drew in a slow breath. "Around here, we work the case that's needing working, not the case that gets you brownie points with the Captain."

Dorster's chance to respond to the challenge didn't come just then. It was cut short by the looming presence of Lt. Smith, appearing from nowhere and overhearing at least the last part. Must have sounded like bickering between mismatched but convenient partners, Dorster moaned inwardly-just the impression he needed to make with his new superior officer that he couldn't fit in here.

"If you lads don't have anything pressing to do this fine evening, perhaps you'd like to prevail upon me to find you some new bit of workload more to your liking?" Lt. Smith said in his overly-broad Irish brogue. "What would be your pleasure, then? Perhaps walking the beat over on Wilshire? Showing the uniforms how the fine detectives do it? Would that suit ya?"

"No, sir," Bud said quickly, moving to cut off any inane response by Dorster. "We've got a plan of action on the open cases and..."

Lt. Smith leaned in toward Bud, his lowered voice so sharp it felt like getting stroked with a hot razor. "Then get to it, boyo. I expect you to show this fine new detective how we do things in this precinct, Det. White."

"I'll do my very best, Lieutenant."

"I know you will, Wendell," Lt. Smith said, a smile now softening his face but not his eyes. "And in return, I promise you'll pull the next juicy case, eh, lad? One you and our new friend here will find just a bit more challenging. Something to wet his wick and let us see the kind of detective we've got ourselves in young Richard."

It would be two more nights before Lt. Smith's promise came true. The case would be challenging...but it would also be very personal for one of the detectives.

III

The body had been found dumped in the foundations of a new shopping mall development. If not for the red trim of the dress she'd been wearing, the corpse might even have gone unnoticed, the cement floor poured in on top. No one then would ever have been the wiser. Miss Jane Doe would not have been lying in the morgue and waiting on homicide detectives to at least put a name to her if not find the brutal killer who had stabbed her repeatedly in a frenzied attack.

White and Dorster got the call to join Smith at mortuary when they strolled into the precinct expecting another morning chasing dead ends. They hadn't been around when the body showed up last night. Bud raised an eyebrow at the request, wondering why Smith had singled them out for this one. He was pretty far down the pecking order of Smith's pets in the department and rarely got any real action unless he hit the scene first and pushed his way in. Which was rare with a partner like Stens who usually made a point of getting everywhere last to make his life easier. It had not helped Bud's career prospects riding with the redoubtable Officer Stensland.

"Smith must have some kind of hard on for you," Bud mumbled as he picked up the file and made his way towards the exit. "We've just got assigned to the new stiff..."

"The girl on the building site? That's more like it..." Dorster replied as he slung on his jacket again and jogged to catch Bud who was already disappearing in the direction of his car.

"Why'd you say that about Smith back at the desk? Not sure I got your meaning... He don't like you or something?" Dorster asked as they neared the morgue.

Bud didn't look over, making a sharp right and entered the parking lot. "Like me? It ain't about like in this job. It's about what he can get out of an officer. Smith thinks I'm a retard. Maybe I am. Or maybe I just don't lick ass as well as some, huh?"

"You saying I do?" Dorster snapped back. He couldn't figure out this guy White. They'd been together three days now barely exchanging two words outside of the relevant discussion of the cases they were on. He guessed White was single, although he hadn't offered any answer to his question, had heard he had a reputation for violence and that his temper was a major problem, but that other men respected him as a clean cop you could rely on to watch your back. Dorster was surprised. White looked like he'd be a corrupt thug even if there was something in his manner that didn't quite fit the bill. White was quiet, soft spoken and without the usual bragging arrogance of the men in the police department. But there was a sense of latent power simmering near his surface. Dorster wondered idly what it might take to push his buttons.

"How the fuck do I know what you do for kicks? Maybe you been bending over and giving it out sweet in your free time. But all I do know is, Smith don't make a habit of giving me the juicy ones."

"Maybe you got the wrong partner? I hear Stensland's a useless piece of shit..."

Bud got out of the car and closed the door behind him softly. Dorster joined him only to be caught off guard when White hauled him against the side of the vehicle and rammed his head back, not enough to do any damage but enough to show he could. "Officer Dick Stensland's been on the force since before you could wipe your own ass. He is currently recovering from an injury gained in the carrying out of his duty. You watch your mouth, sonny, and have some respect. Or I'm the man who'll teach you some, you got that?"

White slung him back and strode off in the direction of the entrance. Dorster brushed down his clothes looking around him in case they had been observed. The speed of the attack had taken his breath away, not to mention the ferocity. Well, now he knew what pushed his partner's buttons. Bud White stood by his friends. Even the useless fat lump of shit that was Dick Stensland.

They entered the room where the body was laid out on the slab, the sheet  pulled away to reveal a slender well-formed naked female, her skin a livid white punctured in several places by savage slash wounds piercing her torso. Her arms were heavily marked with defensive injuries, her nails broken down. This girl had fought to save herself. The coroner said there was evidence of forced recent sexual activity - semen deposit in her vagina and mouth. The intercourse had preceded death.

The room was preternaturally quiet or so it seemed to Bud White as the four men surrounded the pitiful remains, staring down in silence. There was sound from the corridors outside: distant voices, mundane everyday noises of trolleys squeaking over linoleum, doors closing and conversations being conducted, but they all seemed far away as if in another place entirely. Inside this little room time had stopped still for a moment while they paid their meaningless respects, just as it had done permanently for Miss Doe.

The smell of formaldehyde assailed Bud's nostrils, curdling in his stomach. He hated these places and the cold, sordid ritual of postmortem. They picked at the oozing scabs of his memories: the nightmarish vigil with his mother's body lying in a vast pool of blood, flies buzzing and the stench of corruption growing every passing hour. This morgue was the other side of the world from the brutal reality of the crime scene. Here in a pristine soulless shell of white tile and steel, the cadaver had long lost any connection with humanity and the land of the living. It was now just another piece of evidence in someone else's story.

Bud forced himself to look at the woman. He didn't want to see her, not because he was squeamish about death, but because it angered him so much. In the presence of these other men he didn't want to reveal his inner demons or show just how determined he would be to wreak his own brand of vengeance on the perpetrator. But he knew he had to pay attention now, observe and get to know this woman if he was to avenge her.

She must have been a pretty girl, probably even more so when dressed up and wearing her makeup and a fancy dress. The woman was slender with full breasts. Her blonde hair was worn mid-length, shapeless strands hanging damply down around her bloodless face, all the crimps and curls that she probably fussed over for hours gone in the utilitarian clean up job the technicians had given her. Her eyes were closed and surrounded by dark purple rings, part black bruises from the beating she had taken but also from the post-traumatic sub-cranial bleeding - or so the doctor informed them in his bored monotone.

The man went droning on, listing and pointing out the injuries, possible angles of entry, time of assault, weapon used. So far there were no personal belongings with identification nor had they any idea where the homicide had occurred. Bud noted the formal language. She was not a dead woman. She was a homicide. They were not seeking her name but an identity. No one was interested in her life other than as a means to explain her death. It bothered him. Yesterday she had been someone, a person just like they were. Now she was a thing. That wasn't right.

One potential clue had turned up however. It might be significant - or it could be totally random and unconnected. A book of matches from some downtown bar had been found near her body.  It might have dropped from the pocket of the killer as he dumped her or as he smoked over her body. Or it might have been tossed by any guy who had been working in the vicinity any time in the past few days. It was all they had to go on for now.

"Seen enough, boys? White, they should rename you Green..." Dudley Smith slapped him on the back. "Shall we...?" Outside they reassembled in the corridor. Bud stopped to take a drink of cold water from a fountain. The woman's face would not leave him. He didn't think he would ever be able to forget the somber death mask of this young woman.

"Not much to go on as you can see. That's why I need some fine foot soldiers like yourselves to pound the mean streets for me. This is going to require a measure of door knocking by the looks of it. Where would you suggest starting, lads?"

He threw the question out to both of them, aware that White was barely listening, his eyes still drawn to the woman lying in the room still visible through the viewing window. White seemed far away. There was a fierce gleam in his eyes that had the tinge of fury. Smith rather thought he liked that. A little bit of passion was an interesting quality in a policeman.

"Fingerprints, sir. That will eventually throw something up..." Dorster keenly suggested the conventional route. White turned on his heel and headed for the door.

"And where might you be going, officer?" Smith addressed his back. 

"Copy of her picture from the lab. Then bar." He held up the match book. "If she's been there, they'll know. Good looking girl like that makes an impression..."

Smith smiled. "Looks like it's you searching the records then, Richard. Lesson number one, boyo, always choose the glamour end of the investigation, never the routine dog's work. Even if you're pretty sure that's where the answer lies..."

The name of the bar had made an immediate impact on Bud. It was his bar. Life was like that. You think you can keep your head down and no one will find out what you do - and then your embarrassing secret comes back and bites you in the ass. He had to get in first, talk to the bartender and find out what he could. With any luck there'd be no need for anyone to go back again or start making any comments that might link him with the joint. He hadn't done anything wrong anyway. His own time was his own time.

Squaring his shoulders, he swaggered in with the walk he always affected for police business. It wasn't quite the way he did it off duty when he preferred to remain more anonymous and attract less attention. Maybe they wouldn't even recognise him once he flashed his I.D. You see the badge, not the man. Faceless loser at bar becomes faceless cop. It was a pretty good disguise.

In the harsher light of day, the tawdry surrounding of the lounge bar looked even more shabby. The sour stench of beer slops permeated the air, leavened only by the stale odor of cigarettes. A woman was flicking the tables with a dirty cloth in some semblance of cleaning. The bartender was reading a newspaper, a cigarette welded to his fleshy lips as he coughed up the morning residue of a lifetime of the habit.

White leant on the bar and was ignored. "Hey, how come you can read if you're blind?" Bud remarked tartly.

The man raised his head. "We're closed."

"Door's open. LAPD." Bud raised his badge. 

The man set down his paper. "What do you want?"

Bud took the photograph out of his pocket, taking one further look at the close up black and white image of the dead girl. The absence of color made it starker and more brutal than ever. He passed it across. "You know this woman?"

The bartender looked at the picture impassively. "Just might. What she done?"

"Her eyes are closed. Work it out, brains..."

The man eyed him up. "Sure I know her. She drinks here sometimes. Ran up a tab. Who's gonna pay the bill?" He turned back to his reading. 

"She been in lately?"

He sighed and looked up, bored with the topic. "Yeah. Matter of fact she did. Couple of nights ago."

"With anyone?"

"Came in alone..." There was a `but' hovering.

Bud sensed the guy wanted to talk. "Leave with anyone?"

The bartender grinned coldly at him giving Bud the odd impression he was enjoying this. "Matter of fact she did... officer."

"Yeah? You know his name? This guy who picked her up...?"

"Let me see now..." The man reached forward and snatched the badge that Bud had rested down on the bar top by him.  "She left with a guy called...Wendell White...I believe she left with... you....sir..."

IV

If there was ever an office that was artfully staged to both reveal and hide the owner, it was the office of Lt. Dudley Smith.

Carefully arranged artifacts on the walls and the shelves behind him blared his pride in his Irish heritage. Harsh black frames on the left wall, where you might turn if you wanted to look away from Smith when he was behind his desk, displayed his awards, citations and numerous photographs showing him with various luminaries of the law enforcement and civic world of Los Angeles.

Police manuals lined the tidy bookshelf near the door. On the top surface of the credenza behind his desk he had a display of arm patches that ran the gamut of the years of LAPD history. They were framed in a shadow box and held upright in a small easel.

A leather-wrapped billy club, worn and faded, was the only real imperfect object there and it was displayed in a place of subtle emphasis: by itself, on the shelf to his right. You may even imagine it was placed there haphazardly but given the precision of everything else in the room, you would wonder about that.

All of these items demonstrated his allegiance to the LAPD, as if his existence depended upon the work he did to protect and serve.

What you didn't see, though, were any tiny framed pictures on his desk that showed his lovely daughters and his adorable wife.

In fact, there were no personal items that might have told you about his life away from this office, this police force.

The hidden and open messages of Lt. Smith's office were not lost on Det. Ricky Dorster as he fidgeted, standing before the desk, waiting on Smith's return. He had already looked everything over, the first time he'd had the luxury since reporting to this precinct for his new duty.

Of course, he'd heard of Lt. Smith before coming over. It's just that whenever Smith was mentioned, it was usually in whispers and broad ambiguities. He was said to be tough, acid-tongued, smart and political. Some said there was something very dangerous about Smith that you only caught when he eyed you up, taking your measure, coldly assessing your potential use or harm to him.

"Now, boyo, let's just have your report on our lovely girl in the morgue, shall we?" Smith said, breezing into the room. He gave Dorster a smile as he settled in behind the desk.

Dorster stayed standing, not quite at attention. He wanted to make a good impression. "Ran her fingerprints the coroner lifted. Name's Amanda Jennings. Age 23. Been living in the LA area for three years now. Still tracking down where she was before that. She was living with a roommate, apartment, corner of 3rd and Grand Avenues."

"You spoke with her roommate?"

"No, sir. Spoke by phone with the landlord. Address was on her driver's license. He's the one said they'd been living there two years. Had reference from another place where they'd been for a year."

"And what have you learned about Miss Jennings in the way of personal information? Such as where she works, who her folks are so that we might inform them of the tragic loss of their daughter?"

Dorster cleared his throat and glanced to his left, his eyes scanning the wall of frames. "I was waiting on White before I went out there and ..."

"Wendell's not returned yet?"

"No, sir."

Smith frowned and leaned back in his chair. "Have dispatch send a call for him to return to base. I want him with you to run this down, Detective."

"I could go on my own if..."

Smith's eyelids fluttered and the smile turned into chiseled marble. His voice was soft but his tone was utterly malevolent. "You would do well to learn this as your second lesson, Det. Dorster: when I issue a directive, it is not a matter for debate or comment. It is simply for you to carry out. Do we perhaps understand each other a bit better now?"

"Yes, sir. Dispatch...immediately, Lt."

"Then off you go, lad. Come back with the story of Miss Jennings and at least the semblance of a lead to likely suspects. The gentry of this town do not take kindly to murdered girls holding up a building's progress. The sooner we put this one to rest, the better for all concerned."

Det. Bud White was in the precinct's parking area when dispatch transmitted an alert for him. He looked at his eyes in the rear view mirror. They looked steady, even. Glancing at his hands as he flexed them, he saw himself lighting her cigarette. At least, he was pretty sure it was her he'd lit the cigarette for.

Surely, he wouldn't forget that?

Had she even cared that he'd not asked her name? Was he the last man with her before the one who killed her?

Shaking his head hard, Bud grabbed for the door handle, rolled out of the police car and stalked off toward the precinct. Taking the steps up toward the detective's division, he was dreading what might await him. Had they found out already? Was Smith ready to consider him a suspect? Did they know?

He had barely made it inside, hadn't even gotten to his desk, before Dorster was prodding him back out, saying they had to run down a lead on the girl...that Smith was under pressure to get this solved.

Bud said nothing on the drive over. He grunted to acknowledge that he'd heard the information on the girl's identity as Dorster briefed him.

Amanda. He said the name aloud in his head.

The apartment was in much nicer building than Bud expected. He'd anticipated she'd been living in one of any number of anonymous, run-down places near the bar where he'd met her.

But instead, it was in a nice area, not far from downtown. The building was neat, clean, five stories. It was a Tudor style with twin turrets at each of the corners facing Grand Avenue. The middle section, probably stretching over two apartments, had recessed balconies.

He walked slowly up the red brick stairs that led to the second floor from the sidewalk. A discreet sign led them to the building super's apartment.

They badged the guy and flashed the picture. Bud watched him closely for any sign that looked hinky...a guy like this, he'd be an obvious candidate to be on the initial suspect's list. He was Italian, middle aged but fighting it with his dyed black hair arranged like it'd been lacquered on his head.

"But that's...that's... What's happened? The landlord called, said you were asking questions...you didn't tell him Amanda was dead!"

"We don't tell news like that over the phone," Bud said.

"Was it a car accident? That's what happened? I always told her, the way she drove, someday she was gonna meet trouble."

They got what they could from the super. Confirmation on her identity and an introduction to her roommate. 

And Bud felt this case take an unexpected turn the moment the roommate let him into the apartment. That's where he saw the photograph of Amanda, when she'd been alive and happy. It was in a gilded gold frame, sitting atop the burnished mahogany sofa table just inside the door.

The girl in that photo, taken on Santa Monica Beach, should never have been a regular in the bar where Bud met her.

V

"Not quite what I'd expected somehow," Ricky observed as he wandered about Miss Jennings' apartment, fingering objects. "Those photographs make her look like the homecoming queen..." he observed as Bud tended to the roommate. They had just informed her of the death of Miss Jennings.

Irene Zastawecki, Amanda's friend, was sitting straight-backed on a chair, staring blankly ahead of her, tears leaking down her face, a sodden lace handkerchief balled up in her fingers. She kept vainly dabbing to stem the crying, doing little more than smearing her face and mascara into a garish swollen mask. Her nose was running but she seemed unaware of it. Bud crouched down beside her and took out his own handkerchief, a large square of cotton, which he offered it to her, tentatively placing a hand on her arm in consolation.

Dorster's insensitive comment made him stiffen his back. He stood up, walked briskly across the room to and dragged his partner by the arm to the kitchenette.

"...And her naked dead body in a morgue didn't? That what you're saying?" Bud muttered hoarsely. "That's the problem with stiffs. They don't look quite as neat and tidy as the living..." He was still contemplating the image in the frame. How had he missed this? He'd fucked her only a couple of nights before and never even recognized her. How much closer did a man have to get to a woman and he still didn't remember a single thing about her? Dorster was right on one count though. The girl in the picture would not have been drunk at a bar, chain-smoking and picking up men. How had she got from a happy wholesome teenager to the slab of dead meat in the morgue?

"What's your problem with me, White? Why do you go against every damn thing I say?"

"No problem. I just don't like working with rookies..."

"I'm no rookie..."

"...You never worked with me before..."

The exchange was going nowhere. Dorster decided to cut to the chase. "We gotta work together. It doesn't mean either of us has to like it. Any chance we might cooperate? Smith wants results. Results will get us both in his good books. What have you got to lose?"

Bud shrugged. It was about as near to an agreement as Dorster was going to get, so he took it gratefully. 

"Let me talk to the girl." Bud suddenly said. "You go look around, talk to the neighbors, search her room. Just don't disturb anything. Not until we've found out where she died anyway..."

Dorster nodded his agreement and took himself off. Bud returned to the girl who was still in a state of shock. He looked about him, found a bottle of brandy that had hardly been touched and poured her a small shot, squatting back down and coaxing her to drink. "For shock, honey. Take a sip..."

Irene raised the glass and wetted her lips, grimacing slightly, but the action seemed enough to bring her back to him. She turned and met his concerned gaze. "How did she die?" she asked in a blank voice, her pale green eyes still registering her inability to grasp the reality.

"Knife wound... murder."

The girl sobbed; Bud slipped an arm around her shoulders, drawing her against his chest as she wept inconsolably blurting out: "She's my best friend...we went to school together...this will kill her mom and dad...why would anyone do such a thing...?"

Bud waited until the crying eased off and then pried her from his shoulder, taking the handkerchief and wiping her face down. She was a pasty-faced girl, plain and dumpy, dressed staidly with mousy brown hair pulled severely off her forehead and held in a roll style that belonged to another era. It was difficult to imagine her being a 'best friend' either to Amanda the pretty blonde teenager or the other Amanda of late night bars and sordid one night stands.

"I know it's hard for you to talk right now, Miss Zastewecki, but I need to ask a few questions. Do you think you could help us find the person who did this to Amanda?" Bud asked gently. Irene looked up and seemed to see Bud for the first time, her eyes focusing on his face, responding to his instinctive tenderness.

She nodded back, sniffing. "I'll try, officer. But I'm not sure I know anything..."

"You've known Miss Jennings a long time?"

"All my life. We grew up in San Bernardino ...came to L.A together a few years back..."

"Why? Why did you leave a nice town like Bernardino?" he asked, expecting the usual story of girls who got on buses expecting to find fame and fortune in the City of the Angels. Her answer surprised him.

"I came here three years ago to finish my music studies. I play the violin. I'm with the city orchestra now...Amanda followed me. It's my fault! I told her to come. I thought it would help her get over it...."

"Get over what?" Bud asked, prompting her gently.

Irene sighed. "At least she's with him now. Who would have thought it!  The brightest and the best boy and girl in the class...both dead before their time..."

"Honey..." he tried again. "...Tell me what happened to make her come to Los Angeles ..." He was beginning to imagine something other than a random sex killing. Who had Amanda Jennings been trying to get away from? And what other young friend of theirs was already dead?

"Bill. Bill Baxter. They were high school sweethearts. He joined the Army Air Corps. We were all Corps brats, you see. Norton Air Base...that's where we all met. Our fathers were pilots...Bill never wanted to do anything else but fly planes. So after college he did his training and went to Korea ... They got married just before he went. She looked so beautiful...he was so handsome...just like in the movies....but Bill never came back. He was shot down..."

"...White? Looks like Jennings was married. Found a load of photographs in a box in her closet...You think the husband caught up with her or something...? Maybe she was seeing someone else...?" Dorster interrupted the sensitive moment.

Bud rose, anger closing down his face. "The guy's dead. Korea." Dorster had the decency to look abashed. Bud took a step back and breathed deeply. This was not the time or the place.

"...She never got over it. Amanda would never look at another man. I thought she could start again if she came here and got herself a new life, but nothing ever changed for her. Bill was always going to be the love of her life. She was such a good girl. Never went out, never dated, lived quietly...I just don't understand why this happened!" Irene exclaimed.

Bud frowned. Amanda Jennings was a semi-regular in the bar. It was unlikely he was the first man she ever took to a hotel for the night. Yet the friend was telling a completely different story. "You always here, Irene? You ever go out of town?" He was clutching at straws. There had to be an explanation for this.

"Sure," she replied absently. "I go on tour with the orchestra. I'm usually away a couple of days every month, sometimes more..."

"You been away recently, Irene?"

She looked up at him and nodded. "I just got back last night. I wondered where Amanda was...." She paused as if something had just occurred to her. "You think if I'd been here that Amanda would still be alive?"

Bud couldn't leave her with that thought; the guilt would eat away at her.

He shook his head. "It wasn't your fault. Whoever killed her, she was just at the wrong place at the wrong time...you mind if we take this picture of her with us? And we'll need her parents' address. They need to be informed. Is there anyone I could call to come over and stay with you? I don't think you should be alone right now..."

Dorster watched Bud thoughtfully as he drove away from the apartment some time later after they had made sure Miss Zastawecki was being taken care of. "That was real nice of you, White. The way you talked to that girl...I never figured you for a nice guy..."

Bud did not reply but nodded in acknowledgment.  What would it have cost him just to stop and talk to Miss Jennings the other night? She hadn't asked him for sex; she'd asked him to spend the night with her so they could both get some sleep. That young woman had recognized that he was as adrift as she was as she had sat next to him in the bar. He hadn't even opened his eyes to look at her face. No wonder she hadn't wanted to kiss him.  The sex had just been the inducement to bring her a man to hold onto on a lonely night. And he had fucked her and walked without even asking her name, without even trying to find out why she was there or what was her pain. If he had just given her a few hours of his time, maybe she would still be alive now.

Yeah, he was a real nice guy. 

VI

The street where Amanda Jennings had lived with her parents while finishing high school was plain and simple Middle America.

That was Det. Bud White's first impression. It felt like a smack in his face to be here, about to step out of the police car onto the pavement where she'd probably run along to catch the school bus or skipped over to jump into the car with her best boy on a Saturday night date.

Behind the red brick walls of this house he stood before were parents to whom he was bringing the worst possible news, he thought to himself. Bud squared his shoulders, flexed his neck, waiting on his temporary partner, Det. Ricky Dorster, to join him on the sidewalk.

Grimacing into the sunlight, Bud reminded himself that it wasn't his fault they were getting the bad news their daughter was a murder victim-it was the fault of the murderer who chose Amanda Jennings.

Wasn't it?

"Let me do the talking," he said, his voice harsh and uncompromising. 

Dorster frowned. "I have done this sort of thing before, White. I'm not a rookie."

Bud said nothing in reply, simply gazed at Dorster until the other man nodded and looked away.

As they stood before the door, waiting on someone to answer, Dorster mused softly, "Wonder why she wasn't using her real name."

"Real name?" Bud asked, examining the iron work of the screen door and noting the absence of even a hint of rust.

"Yeah. Sure. She was married."

"A widow."

"Still ... what widow you know don't keep her old man's name? Specially a war widow?"

Just then, the door was opened by a woman wearing an apron over a flowered shift. Her dark hair was pulled up into a neat bun. She kept a smile on her face, even if it was tentative as she faced strangers at her door, Bud noted. Her polite words, asking if she could help them, made him feel big and bulky, as if barging into her life with the news was also a physical assault on her tidy world inside this home.

They showed their badges, said their names, gave their status as detectives with LAPD, asked if they could come in. Her smile died just a bit in anticipation of bad news while still denying anything awful was about to happen on such a sunny morning.

She ushered them in, gesturing them into the front parlor.

Bud took in the white doilies on the arm rests of the couch and two overstuffed chairs. He catalogued other minutiae of the room's ambiance: a low slung, mahogany coffee table with a trim green plant on one side and a neatly fanned stack of magazines on the other. On the side table next to the couch, a bronze lamp and a candy dish of white porcelain with those trendy white bumps along the outside surface. The windows covered with gauzy, off-white sheers. The walls in flat beige paint and the trim of rich, warm mahogany. The carpet's cream fibers looked not new but not old either.

"Is your husband home, Mrs. Jennings?" Bud asked, keeping his voice soft but opting to be as neutral in tone as possible. Best to get someone else here with this woman before they gave her the news. Someone to share the burden of the first awareness of the tragedy.

"He's just gotten home from work and...he's in his wood shop...in the back and..."

"Why don't you go and call him in? Let's talk with both of you at the same time."

"If you think that's wise," she said, making it into a question.

Bud put a hand on her shoulder, gently prodding her toward the back of the house, giving her a small smile that softened his face. "I do think it would be. You go on. We'll wait here."

After the back door slammed shut, Dorster muttered, "You notice she never asked why we're here? Think she knows something's up with the daughter? Maybe suspects something? Or knows something?"

"I think, Dorster, she's aware we ain't here bringing good news."

"I woulda thought she'd have asked what's up."

"People like her, people who don't get so bruised by life, they don't quite know how to handle when the really bad stuff smashes into their lives. They got no experience with this sort of thing. She don't know what to ask, what to do. That's why she didn't ask."

"You got experience with this kind of woman, eh? She reminds of your mom, I bet."

Bud glared at him, his back stiff, his mouth a thin line. "You better learn when to keep your mouth shut tight around me, got it?"

"I am not going to tiptoe around you and your ego, White. You're wanting to make hay with this case just as much as me but you can't do it alone - I can help but not if you keep shutting me out. Ever occur to you that I may actually be able to contribute to this investigation?"

They both heard the back door open, shut...footsteps came swiftly down the hall.

A tall man, his hair still mostly black but a bit of silver creeping in at the temples, walked in to the parlor, followed by Mrs. Jennings.

"Bert Jennings," the man said, holding a hand out to each detective in turn. "My wife says you wish to speak with us? She says you're with the LAPD...is Amanda okay? Just tell us-we need to know our girl's not in trouble of some kind."

"Think you'd better sit down first," Bud said, gesturing toward the sofa where they could sit together if they chose.

Bert's initial physical reaction was to blink hard and shake his head. Bud figured he knew it was more than just 'some trouble.' Bert's next move was to put his arm around his wife's slim shoulders, whisper in her ear and then lead her over to the couch, sinking in beside her. He kept an arm around his wife, an instinctive move to protect her, Bud noted.

Bud's natural suspicions wired up at that. Why was Amanda's dad being overly solicitous to his wife? Was he the murderer? Had he abused Amanda? So many similar thought, fleeting impressions and questions, sliced through Bud's mind. They came so fast, he barely consciously registered them. It was more the way the instant feeling of mistrust based on his jaded experience colored his perception of Bert Jennings' actions.

"Mr. and Mrs. Jennings, I regret to tell you that your daughter Amanda is dead," Bud said. He gave the important information to them all in one dose. "My partner and I are investigating her death. She was murdered two nights ago. We need your help to find and bring her killer to justice."

The parents sat so still that Bud wondered if he'd spoken aloud just then. Maybe they were still waiting on him to say something. But as he watched, he saw the color leave their faces as the news was absorbed.

Mrs. Jennings sagged in her husband's hold. Her lips trembled; her hands shook in her lap as they fumbled together. What started as a gasp quickly became a keening wail in the void of her loss.

Her husband's hands gripped in to her shoulders. His entire body seemed to shake. His head dipped down until he pressed his left temple in against his wife's right cheek. His lips moved but Bud could not hear the words over his wife's wounded wail.

And then they moved as one, turning toward each other, arms reaching for a hold inside the hug of another person to share the burden. They wept, their faces buried against each other's shoulder.

Watching them made Bud feel even more the intruder, the culprit, the guilty one.

Amanda had been loved by her parents, he thought to himself. She was precious to them. And her death is the worst thing that will ever happen to them.

Why was he so suspicious of the father? So worried over the mother? He turned this over briefly just before Bert Jennings pulled his head away from his wife's shoulder to look up at Bud with eyes bright with tears and rimmed already in red. Mrs. Jennings kept her body pressed against her husband as if he could shield her from what would come.

"Where is she? Where's my girl? Please tell me you didn't leave her alone somewhere. She was always afraid of the dark and I..." Bert asked them, his voice hollow and confused as it stuttered to a stop.

"Amanda's safe, sir," Bud heard himself say.

"Who did this? What can you tell us...what should I know?"

"We'll tell you as much as we can, as much as you want to know. You don't want the details now...you will later," Bud said, now sitting down on the edge of one of the overstuffed chairs that faced the couch. From the corner of his eye, he saw his partner mirror his movement.

"My baby," Mrs. Jennings sobbed, her face buried in her husband's chest. "Bert, our baby!"

"I know, honey, I know," Bert said softly, his arms rocking his wife. "Our girl. That city killed her."

Bud and Ricky exchanged glances now.

"We have a few questions for you," Bud said to the parents. "When you can answer them...we need some background. It could help us find out who killed her and why."

"Of course, officers," Bert said, his voice now hard as if steeling himself for what would come. "We will help you in any way we can."

And for the rest of the interview, it was only Amanda's father who answered coherently. His wife seemed to go so far inward with shock that any contributions she made were whispered in pants and sniffles to her husband who would relay the information to the detectives.

By the time Bud and Ricky left the initial interview, there was one thing very clear to them both: finding the answers to a heinous murder had to start in this safe town, a world away from the gritty crime scene in Los Angeles.

VII

"Where to, White?" Dorster asked as they hit the road, relieved to shake the sadness of the bereaved parents from them.  "L.A.?"

Bud drove on, considering their options. "Yeah. You go back. I'll drop you off...you can take the bus..."

Dorster flashed him a sour look. "The bus? While you do exactly what?"

"While I stay here. Get a room. Look around. Go meet some of the friends. This may look like a random killing but who knows? We could be missing something. Maybe the parents are lying. Maybe the girlfriend knows more than she's saying. Maybe there's some old boyfriend back here who wanted a shot...Too many things not adding up here. You go follow up the random sex fiend line. Look for anything on the files that's got the same MO, any reports from girls of assaults or guys who've been scaring them...all the usual lines of enquiry...No reason for us doubling up..."

Dorster nodded. "You're right. Any leads we're gonna get will dry up in a day or two...I need to walk the streets, ask if anyone saw her. You get anything at that bar?"

Bud shook his head. "She'd been there but not that night..."

"What night? Nothing to say Amanda was killed the night she was taken. Her friend ain't been home for days...."

Bud had to acknowledge that Dorster had a point. He had two choices. Tell the truth or put his partner off the track. "Let's get a fix on when she disappeared. Miss. Jennings had a job. So go ask them when she last showed. That way we cut out a lot of time-wasting..."

"You know something real strange, White? We keep agreeing. Ain't that something? Keep this up and we'll both be kissing and making up by the end of this case..." Dorster laughed.

"Try kissing me, pal, and it'll be your last ever case. Period..." Bud gave him a slight smile.

Dorster snorted then pointed up ahead. "There's the bus station...keep in touch..."

"Same for you. I want to know what her office says. Check the desk. I'll call in my motel room number soon as I check in..."

"You gonna see the local cops?"

Bud shrugged. "Not yet. I can do without the aggravation. Only if this turns up something..."

"Watch your back then. You know how these local boys love us on their territory..."

Later that same night, Bud sat in an anonymous diner eating a tasteless burger and fries, quietly observing life in this neat little suburban city. Kids would probably hate it, dream of getting out and tasting the lights of the big city. So they rode that bus and ended up dead. How often was he going to hear that story before he was done?

"You want a fill up, mister...?" Carol Moran jiggled the coffee pot at the new guy. She had drawn the straw to go and find out something about him. He was the most promising hunk to chow down on what they were selling the girls had all seen in months.

Bud lifted up his cup, smiled a half smile and waited for the refill. 

"New in town?"

"Passing through..." Bud answered vaguely.

"Aren't they all? On your way to L.A.?" she persevered; this one was real talkative but she was patient.

Bud looked up at her and noted her face. She wasn't just a random woman coming on to him - although he guessed she was hoping he flirted a little back. There couldn't be much else to entertain these waitresses working long shifts. But Bud wasn't sure if any woman could be just a face to him again. This waitress was a pretty girl, brunette and freckle-faced, a wholesome all-American girl just like Amanda Jennings had once been. She looked liked she was in her early twenties.  How many schools were there in this area? It was worth a chance.

On a whim he reached into his inside pocket and pulled out the photograph of Amanda in her younger days that her parents had let him take away. "You ever seen this woman?"

Carol peered over his shoulder at the image of the happy smiling girl. "Hey! That's Mandy Jennings! I know her!" She put two and two together, drawing away slightly, suddenly unsure about him. "You a private dick? I'm not saying anything..."

"Why? You don't even know the question yet, honey..." Bud did not confirm or deny his job. The waitress seemed to presume her guess was right.

"I know how it works. Some bitch wants a divorce so she hires a guy like you to snoop around and get dirt on her husband. I'm not setting Mandy up. If she's having fun in L.A. then she deserves it..."

"So this guy she's seeing? She told you he was married...?" Bud sensed that the girl would love to gossip, despite her protests of solidarity.

Carol sighed. "It was months ago. She came home for Christmas and a few of us met up. She's probably not even seeing him now..."

"This guy? He got a name?"

Carol gave it some thought, checked over her shoulder. Her boss was on a cigarette break so she decided to sit down. This was getting exciting. "She said he worked at her place. She called him Jay. Look, mister..."

"...Bud...Call me Bud, honey..."

"...Bud...Mandy had a pretty bad time. She got married but her guy was shot down in Korea. She went to LA because this town reminded her too much of him, you know how it is? This Jay was the first guy she dated since Bill died. She was dying to talk about him. She rooms with this real Goody Two Shoes called Irene. Mandy said she didn't dare tell her about Jay...he was married but his wife didn't understand him, she said. He kept saying he was going to leave her and get a divorce....looks like she got the jump on him, huh?"

"Looks like..." Bud replied without committing.

"...My name's Carol, by the way...Carol Moran...I get off at ten. I could tell you a whole lot more then..." she added, blushing slightly, revealing her interest.

Bud looked at her thoughtfully. Miss Moran might be forward, she might be bored, she might even be a good time girl and know the score - but the last thing she needed in her life was a man like him. He was making no mistakes this time. "Sorry, honey...I've gotta move on. Thanks for your help. Don't worry, I won't mention your name in my report..."

He stood up and threw a few bills on the table, making sure he included a sizeable tip. Miss Moran shrugged - but pocketed her share gratefully before the other girls noticed. "You have a good evening, Bud..." she called softly after him as he left."...Ten...if you change your mind..."

VIII

The high school where Amanda Jennings ... Mandy ... went was so wholesome and chaste that Bud felt big and mean just walking in the front doors. He looked ahead at the empty hallway and absorbed the expectant silence.

Floors were buffed to a high polish. Walls were painted crisp white and decorated with bulletin boards framed in deep red mahogany. Banners announced a sock hop coming that Saturday. Cheery collages advertised that time was drawing short to ask your favorite girl to this year's junior-senior prom.

For long moments, Bud was transported back to his own high school. It was the floors, the way the linoleum was polished so bright that it almost hurt to walk on it, as if you might break the spell.

Mrs. Collins used to say the world was your oyster but not every oyster held a pearl. Bud smiled at the memory, shaking his head as he stared at the floor beneath his brown shoes. He hadn't thought of her in years. She was an odd duck, his guidance counselor, always trying to get him to consider something, anything but becoming a cop.

But being a cop had been Bud's career choice ever since he could remember. Of course, he'd presumed he'd be going into the force after the war but one blown-out knee courtesy of an opposing football player later, and Bud was never going to qualify for that Army physical. The only real consolation was that it didn't delay him going to the academy. LAPD wasn't quite as picky as the Army, but then it couldn't afford to be when so many boys his age were going off to war and returning with ambitions of college.

The sound of a shrill bell blew away Bud's daydream of his own youth. Doors along the hallway flew open and kids started spilling out. Noise became a roiling wave that crashed over him. Their voices were one big glob of laughter and yammering. No one came his way, though. Not toward the entrance. Instead, they were rushing to their next classes, down this main hallway and then turning the corners and heading toward the other wings of the school.

Bud stood watching the scene before him. He tried to picture Amanda, Irene and Carol in this crowd. Somehow, he could not.

The next bell peeled out, warning the few students remaining in the hall to scoot along before they were late for their next class. And as they began running, Bud White began walking slowly and carefully toward the glass door that he knew had to be the school's office.

An older man stood just outside the door, glaring down the hall at two boys who lingered just outside the door of one of the classrooms. "Inside, gentlemen," the man barked out. The boys smirked in his direction before sauntering into the room, closing the door behind them.

"You know where I can find the principal? Mr. Schneider?" Bud asked softly.

"Young punks," the man muttered as he turned from watching the boys to face Bud. He gave Bud the once over. "And what can I do for you, Officer?"

Bud smiled, tight and formal. He badged the guy, surprised he'd picked him out that quick as a cop. "You'd be Principal Schneider, I gather?"

"That'd be me, Officer. I understand you're investigating Miss Jennings' murder."

"How would it be you'd understand that, sir?"

"You should learn to read the morning papers, Officer. Miss Jennings is the main story. And I have to presume that any stranger looking like he's a police officer would almost certainly be from Los Angeles and here to talk with me about Miss Jennings."

"You'd be right on the money, sir. Somewhere we can talk?"

"Anything I can do to help find her killer, I will do without hesitation, Officer. Tell me: what, exactly, is it you think you can learn about a killing that happened in Los Angeles by coming here to our town? Do you suspect that the murderer is someone Miss Jennings knew from this period of her life rather than someone she knew in Los Angeles?"

"I haven't formed any conclusion. We're chasing down every lead. Shall we go in your office?"

Schneider tilted his head in agreement and then ushered Bud inside the glass door, pausing to tell one of the secretaries to hold any calls. Inside his office, he gestured Bud to take one of the seats facing his desk. Schneider leaned against the bank of windows that looked out over the school's front parking lot. He stared out at the peaceful day. Why would anyone ever think the mystery of Amanda's violent death had its source in his high school? This was a waste of time. This officer should have been doing something useful, something productive. He should be in L.A., doing real investigation, rather than being here, dredging for scandal and evil where he would find none.

"I understand Miss Jennings met her future husband here," Bud asked. He had his notebook out, the pen poised above its open page.

"Mr. Baxter," Schneider said, his voice rough. "A fine young man."

"Amanda lived with her old high school friend, Irene Zastawecki. They'd stayed close all those years. And she came back regularly, holidays, to visit her family and looked up her old high school friends."

"Is there a question in there, Officer?"

"Would you say she was still tight with all her high school buddies?"

"I'd say Miss Jennings was a beautiful and charming young lady. She made many friends. She was very involved in activities. She was a dedicated student. She and her friends were like so many other circles of high school friends I've seen in my career - they remained loyal and dear to each other. There was nothing remarkable about her affection for this town."

"Was there ever any incident that sticks out as unusual? Perhaps a boy not too charmed by her? Or a rival for Baxter? Someone who may have ..."

"Are you seriously asking me if there was someone at this school who might have killed Mandy? Officer, you have some nerve to come in here and... Why, I have a mind to call the Sheriff and let him know just what you are suggesting."

Bud watched Schneider's stiff back, the way he leaned toward him as he got more and more worked up over Bud's rather routine question. The way his color deepened to ruddy. The way his eyes never wavered from Bud's.

He rose from his seat and approached Schneider. The other man did not move. Schneider didn't step sideways or retreat to his power position behind the desk. He simply stood and watched Bud draw nearer.

"In my experience, someone official reacts like you just did, sir, and there's something he's hoping I won't ever find out about."

"You are incorrect, Officer."

"I will find out, sir. Count on it."

Schneider stared into Bud's eyes. Bud's eyebrows rose.

"Maybe you should just go on and tell me now."

"Tell you what, Officer?"

"Tell me the name of the guy you're feeling real uneasy about. The guy you thought about this morning when you first read about Mandy's murder. Go on. Do it for her, Mandy. Do it so her parents can find out as quick as possible who did this to their baby."

Schneider blinked. He looked toward the American flag that stood in the corner to the right of his oak desk. Slowly, he walked behind his desk, the fingers of his hand dragging along its surface until he lowered himself into his chair.

"The answer is not here, Officer," he said, his voice now diminished.

"Then the quicker I eliminate whoever it is you're thinking about, the better."

IX

Schneider paused, and the unsaid name hung in the air. But the moment passed, the principal drew himself together and turned to face Bud. "I have already given you my answer, Officer. You're in the wrong place and barking up the wrong tree. This heinous crime is not connected to anyone from this school. Go back to L.A. That's where you'll find your answers."

Maybe he was wrong, Bud thought to himself as he strode out back through the now silent corridors. This town was just full of dead ends. The best lead he'd had had come from the waitress: the married boyfriend, Jay something or other, who worked at the same office. Or maybe just some guy in a bar who'd picked her up for more than just the usual reason. Why was he looking for complications in what had to be a cut and dried case? Would it make him feel any better if he could prove that Miss Jennings would have died anyway?

There didn't seem to be enough reason to stay. He'd unearthed nothing to justify him looking around anymore. The more he dug, the more he found a girl he couldn't recognize. Banging his head against a brick wall wouldn't shed any light on this case.

Yet, as he left the city limits behind and headed for the freeway, he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd missed something just like he had back that night. He wasn't smart enough for all this. He should do what cops always do: go pull in some loser with a some form and slam this one on him. Case closed, everyone's happy and the good people of the City of the Angels can sleep safely in heir beds at night. It might even do his career some good.

Even if it still didn't do justice by Amanda Jennings.

"So, you found your way back, huh?" Dorster looked up from the report he was reading when Bud walked into the office. 

Bud shrugged. "What you got?"

"Not much. Pages of typed statements. Take your pick. Either Miss Jennings was the girl your mother hoped you'd meet, or she was a hot dame who gobbled up guys and spat them out. Can't make sense of it. More I read, the less I know about her...you find anything?"

"Maybe. You talked to anyone at her place of work?"

Dorster nodded, leafing through the papers in front of him. "Yeah...talked to her boss and a few colleagues. They were all shocked. Said she was a nice girl, did her job, well-liked..."

"...Anyone there called Jay?"

Dorster looked through the list again. "Jay? Short for something?"

Bud hunched his shoulders. "Any guy's name begin with J? It might have been her nickname for him..."

"Guy in the mailroom called Jeb...One of the managers called Jimmy...."

Bud turned on his heel and headed for the door.

"Where you off to? Hey, White...wait for me...!" Dorster picked up his hat and ran, catching up with Bud in the corridor, having to trot to match the long strides of his partner. "White, something else...I need to tell you something... I talked to a waitress in that bar...you know, the book of matches...? Anyway, this dame, she said she saw Jennings leave with some tough, good-looking big guy...coupla nights before she died...maybe we should go back there tonight? Lean on the regulars some?  One of them might remember something.

Bud froze, staring straight ahead, nothing but the constriction of the muscles in his neck showing his sudden consternation. "You do what the fuck you like. I'm following a lead. You think you gonna find someone in a joint like that who'll talk to the cops? Or say anything worth hearing...? Jesus Christ, where you been?"

Dorster stopped, smoothed back his hair and set his fedora at a jaunty angle, frowning. Every time he mentioned that bar, White changed the subject. Now what would make a cop like White do something like that?

The Golding Metal Spinning Company was a family owned concern, one of those small factories that peppered the sprawling industrial zones for mile after dreary mile, identical beacons to prosperity and development peopled by the anonymous thousands who inhabited the growing suburbs of this city. It was the fifties. Jobs were plentiful, emigration was at an all-time high. Few people originated in these parts, workers came and went, nobody knew anyone else. The sense of community that had existed before the war in most small towns had been left far behind in the race to build the dream in this city of the angels.

As the security guard on the gate lifted up the bar and beckoned them in, pointing the way to the main office, Bud felt a sense of dread hanging over him, like he was paddling against a current, making no headway forward and each moment dragging him nearer and nearer to the falls. Dorster was no fool. He was a college boy with all the smarts and pieces of paper - he also wasn't naïve. How long before he worked it out?

It made no difference he was innocent. He was acting as if he had something to hide. Try and explain your way out of that one in a case like this where there wasn't much to go on except a desire to sweep the questions under the carpet and make an arrest.  He himself had sent men to Q on a lot less than he was looking at here.

"You talk to the boss?" Bud asked as they mounted the step and he hit the entry door with his usual force.

Dorster shook his head. "He wasn't around. He's been away for a coupla weeks on vacation. Florida. I think he's heading for retirement. His son runs the show...guy called Abe Golding."

"Age?"

"Forty, forty five...something like that."

"He got a middle name?"

"Not that I know of. What's the big deal with the name?"

Bud looked over, bit on his lip and then answered. "Friend of hers back home says she had a married boyfriend. Some guy called 'Jay' at work."

His partner shrugged. "This don't have the look of a crime of passion, White. A guy might take his fists to a girl who was getting too clingy, afraid his wife might find out, but he wouldn't carve her up like a piece of meat. We're wasting our time looking for reasons. It's as clear as day. Sex crime. We are looking at a pervert or some drunk who turned nasty. This could backfire on us, you know? Another stiff like Miss Jennings and the captain will be asking what the fuck we been doing while our killer jerked himself off again..."

Bud didn't answer. Instead he leaned over the desk, flashed his badge and smiled down at the receptionist. "LAPD. Mr. Golding in?"

"Would that be Mr. Golding Junior or Mr. Golding Senior, sir?" The pert blonde replied, flashing him the eye. 

"The one who's here...much obliged, Miss..."

She stood and turned on her heel, her curls bouncing and her shapely buttocks in the tight gray skirt swaying pleasantly before the two men. "If you'd just walk this way, gentlemen..."

"If I walked that way, I'd slip my back out," Dorster muttered. "Jesus H. Christ, imagine that nude?"

Bud sneered. "You just concentrate on walking with that hard on and save it for your wife...I better do the talking, dickhead..." But his eyes wandered down to the aforementioned posterior all the same as she clip clopped on her high heels to the office at the end of the corridor. "If you'll just wait one moment..."

The woman entered the office, closing the door behind her; they could hear the muted voices inside. A short while later, she came out, smiling; "You can go in now, officers. Mr. Golding Junior will see you..."

They entered the office. Golding, short, portly and balding, glanced up but did not attempt to rise and greet them. "You were here already. We told you what you wanted to know. I'm a busy man. This better be good..."

"Good morning, Mr. Golding. My name is Officer White. I'm here about the recent homicide of one of your employees, Amanda Jennings. I understand you've already spoken to Officer Dorster but further information has turned up. We'd be grateful if you'd cooperate..."

"I am cooperating or you wouldn't be in here, Officer White. Further information? What further information?"

"May I, sir?" Bud pulled back a chair; Golding nodded. Dorster took up a leaning post at the wall near the door, fingering his fedora and listening. "Miss Jennings was seeing someone who worked here, or at least she was back in December. We'd like to eliminate him from the enquiry. It would help if we could look over your employment record. All we know is the guy was called Jay..."

"Jay? That a name or an initial?" Golding barked back.

Bud hunched his shoulders. "You tell me. They're your employees, sir."

Golding shot him a hostile glance. "Don't try and bull boy me. I know you cops and your methods. She was dating someone here last December? You any idea of the turnover in a place like this? She could have had ten other guys since then for all I know..."

Bud did not react to the belligerence, continuing to address Golding in his quiet measured tone. "That is why we would like access to the personal details of your employees over the past year. One other question. How well did you know Miss Jennings?" Bud's face remained impassive as he slid the incisive question across; it was loaded with meaning.

Golding showed nothing but the same disdain as before. He might not be trying to be liked but he wasn't hiding anything either. "She worked here. Nice girl. Pretty. Good figure. Did her job. That's about it. You can think what you like. I like girls that are easy on the eye. A fine rack and a good pair of gams will get you the job any day. But I'm a strictly look but no touch guy. Happily married man. Ask around. They hate my guts but they know I'm no sleazeball."

"Just doing my job, sir."

Golding stood up, went to a filing cabinet and pulled out a drawer. "You'll find what you need in here. I'm going for some lunch. Be gone when I get back, huh?" Then he picked up his hat and walked out, slamming the office door behind him.

"He don't seem particularly upset..." Dorster said thoughtfully.

"That's because he doesn't give a damn. Plenty more pretty girls where she came from. This is California. Buses empty their load of cuties every day. He's a prick. But it don't make him a killer. Fact is, if he was guilty, he would have been a whole lot nicer. Okay, roll your shirt sleeves up. We've got a lot of reading to do..."

It was a long list. The company employed one hundred and sixty four men. Of those, twenty three had only been with the company since January. Fifty eight were unmarried. That still left eighty three. A careful check of their names and all possible permutations still gave them fifteen possibles. They discarded men over fifty five and under twenty. Amanda Jennings was not that desperate. In the end they highlighted four names with a further eight on a back up list.

Out at the main reception, Bud slid into the seat across from the pretty receptionist. He read the name on the plate at the head of the desk: Janet Rauber. "Miss Rauber? Could you do us a small favor?"

"Actually, it's Mrs. Rauber. But sure, officers, I can do you both a favor, if you like..." She fingered the beads round her neck and simpered as she answered him. The two men exchanged a glance.

Bud leaned forward and offered her the list. "We'd like to talk to these four men. Is it possible to locate them and bring them here? Mr. Golding has vacated his office for our use..."

She glanced over the names. "Is this about Amanda?" Suddenly she dropped the vamp. Her concern seemed genuine.

"We're investigating her murder. These gentlemen are just helping with our enquiries."

Mrs. Rauber nodded. "Don't let him get away with it. She didn't deserve what happened." At that she stood up and walked off, no longer attempting to attract their prurient gazes. Bud pursed his lips in thought and turned his head to look after her. Their eyes met; she had stopped at the door herself to look back at him. "Do what you can. Catch the animal who did this, will you?"

He nodded as she slipped out of the door. There had been something in her expression that was saying more than her words. Did she know something?