CLEAN, Part Three: Many A Tear Has To Fall

 

by Darcy

 

 

 

 

Los Angeles, July 1951

 

 

Brakes squealing in protest, he pulled into the curb in front of the duplex in Hollywood at just past eleven. Bud hit the door and was moving fast up the walk when Jeanie flew out of her neighbor's house and into his arms. He folded her in close, hushed her with gentle caresses and kisses to her hair. Over her bent auburn head he saw Mrs. Martin watching and waved his thanks. He could see she was curious, read the unasked questions in her eyes, but he ignored them and guided Jean inside her own door. Bud went straight for the kitchen and the bottle of scotch, poured himself a healthy shot. He knocked it back in one swallow and gazed at Jeanie, need in his eyes.

 

She came to him, wrapped him in tender arms. Bud buried his face in her hair and inhaled her scent; Breck shampoo, a drift of Shalimar, the freshness of Ivory soap and Niagara starch on the collar of her blouse. Clean, she was so clean. And he'd kept her that way, kept the filth that was Tony Monaco from touching her when a fucked up system had set him free to do his worst. The slogan of the LAPD, repeated often in weekly pep talks by Chief Parker, floated up from his subconscious: To Protect and Serve. Maybe he hadn't done it by the book, but justice had been served. He'd given Monaco's wife her life back. And he'd protected Jeanie.

 

Bud cupped her chin, pulled back to look into her glistening eyes. "You okay, sweetheart?" For the first time since his mother died, he felt like he belonged to someone, that somebody gave a fuck what happened to him. And for the first time, he loved a woman enough to want to share his life with her.

 

She nodded and searched his eyes, touched his shadowed cheek with gentle fingertips. "What about you, Bud?"

 

"I'm good." He kissed her, his lips pulling softly at hers, then leaned back to give her a crooked, reassuring smile. "Hey, what's with the face? I'm sorry I scared you...I ain't used to thinking about anyone but myself...maybe I jumped the gun a little. But don't worry, it's all over now." His thumbs caressed her smooth cheeks, his eyes locked on hers. Suddenly it seemed like the time to tell her. Suddenly he couldn't hold it back anymore, so he just said it.

 

"Jeanie...I love you."

 

He saw joy flood her face, leaping happiness in the eyes that never left his. Whispering, she said the words that lifted his heart and gave him the courage to go further. "Bud…oh Bud. I love you too."

 

He settled her back in his arms, tightened his hold to keep her there. "Baby, it ain't easy being a cop's wife," he said into her hair. "Stuff like this is gonna happen; there's always the chance some lowlife shitbird with a hard on for the guy who sent him up will make a play." He kissed her gently and with his lips caressing the shell of her ear, murmured, "But I can take care of both of us; I swear I'll protect you, sweetheart. I'll never let anyone hurt you..."

 

A softly questioning, "Did you protect me tonight, Bud?"

 

Her breath chuffed against his face, tension tightened her body as she waited for his reply. He answered just as quietly. "Yeah."

 

He felt her nod. "I knew it, and I'm glad. I feel so safe with you, Bud."

 

He kissed her and felt her lips trembling against his. "It's okay, sweetheart. I don't want you to worry."

 

"I'm not worried, Bud." Her arms tightened around him. "I'll never be afraid of anything, as long as you're with me."

 

He went still, his heart beat fast against hers. "Then you'll take a chance on me, Jeanie? Marry me?"

 

She lifted her head, gazed into his eyes with her heart on her face. "Yes."

 

His eyes softened, his lips curved in a smile that lighted his face. Suddenly it seemed like there was nothing in his world except good things. For the first time the future had promise; in a split second of time Bud thought of children, a house with a picket fence, growing old with this woman beside him. Somehow the moment Jeanie said yes, he believed all the bad shit in his life was over. He'd done his time in purgatory and now he was being rewarded with heaven. Her love had washed him clean, as clean as she was herself. Mutely grateful, he kissed her, tucked her head under his chin and held her close.

 

Her voice, hesitantly questioning, was muffled against his chest. "Bud, what happened tonight? Where were you?"

 

He considered giving her a whitewashed version, but in the end he figured it was best to tell the truth. Abruptly, he told her what he'd done, and why. And as she listened, she realized she should have been horrified, but all Jeanie felt was relief that a man so vicious could never harm them again. It might have been wicked to think that way but she didn't care; all she worried about was whether Bud could be connected to the accident.

 

"Not a chance," he said, shaking his head. "I'm alibied up good, been sitting in a coffee shop for the last hour and a half with witnesses who'll swear I was there all night."

 

"But you went for him this morning. People saw that, they'll remember."

 

He laid a finger over her lips and hushed her. "Shh...don't worry, honey. It ain't the first time I paid a visit to the lockup, and it won't be the last. They expect it; I'm the one they call in to scare the bad guys shitless. This morning was nothing, forget it."

 

She nodded, still not sure but willing to let it go. Her need to care for him took over. "Are you really okay, Bud? Hungry? I could make you something...a sandwich..."

 

He shook his head. "I'm just tired, honey." He leaned in, kissed her again, let his breath go in a weary sigh. "What do you say we just go to bed?"

 

Jeanie took his hand and led him up the stairs. A feeling of contentment swept over him as he walked into her bedroom and began the nightly ritual: his gun and badge on the nightstand, his shoes beside the dresser. He stripped down to his skivvies and waited until Jean was through before using the bathroom. He thought all he wanted was to rest with her in his arms, but when he watched her undress and slip into a nightgown, Bud changed his mind. His need suddenly overwhelming, he rolled her under him and took her hard and fast. His kisses were rough and possessive, his normally gentle caresses almost frantic.

 

Yet even as he grunted and thrust above her, Jean felt no fear of him. She understood why he was rougher than usual, understood his need to release some of the pent tension that had been seething in him the entire day. He cried out her name as he came, his lips found hers and he kissed her hard, murmuring his love against her mouth. Panting heavily, he sank down on her body, his head pillowed on her breasts. Her hands went to his bristly hair and stroked, gentle fingers scratched lazily at his scalp. Bud White lay contented, thinking that for once in his fucking life, things were going right. Lulled by the pleasure of Jeanie's hands on him, he rolled to the side and pulled her into his arms, drifted down into a warm comfortable place he'd never been, and fell asleep.

 

e e e

 

They talked in the morning over breakfast. Now that she'd said she'd marry him, Bud pushed for a quick wedding...he would have taken her to City Hall the next day if she'd agree to it. He saw no reason to put off making it official now that they both knew what they wanted. His expression turned sour when Jean insisted they wait.

 

"Wait for what?" he grumbled irascibly. "I love you, you love me. I want you with me all the time. It ain't like we're kids...what the fuck do we need to wait for?"

 

Jeanie smiled inwardly at his language, and his mood. The more comfortable Bud became with her, the looser his tongue got. Some women would have been insulted and thought it disrespectful. Some women would be put off by his obvious irritation. She saw it for what it was; proof that he was completely himself with her.

 

"You're in that much of a hurry?" She arched her eyebrow, teased him, "It's not like you aren't already getting the milk, you know. Why be in such a hurry to buy the cow?"

 

He laughed, rose from his chair to lift her from hers. "Because this is some cow." He kissed her and his grin melted into a soft smile. "I want to make sure that milk is mine forever, baby."

 

"Well, let's say I'm a practical cow," Jean argued. "There are things we need to do, you know: blood tests, a license." She batted her eyes at him. "A new dress for me...a new suit for you."

 

"I don't need a new suit. I need you."

 

"Maybe we can have a little party? Invite a few close friends to celebrate with us?"

 

Bud scowled. He didn't have close friends, nobody he'd want at his wedding, anyhow. The closest person to him in the world after Jeanie was Stens, and even though he trusted his partner with his life every day, he didn't see the need to have him at his wedding.

 

He rubbed his hand over his face and thought of how long it would take to put all that together. A couple of weeks, at least. Too fucking long...he wanted to marry Jeanie now. Screw new dresses and a party. He tried one more time, put on his most cajoling face.

 

"I thought we'd just do it, baby. No fuss, no big deal. Just make it legit and start living together for real, instead of shackin' up on the nights I can stay." Bud sat down, pulled her onto his lap.

 

"You did, huh?"

 

He kissed, held her close. "Yeah. So we can have this..." he squeezed her, "...all the time." He grinned. "And so I can have eggs like this every day."

 

"What? Bud White, are you marrying me for my cooking?" she asked in mock indignation.

 

He gazed up at her, into the blue eyes that had stolen his heart from the beginning. "I'm marrying you for all of it, Jeanie. Because..." He stopped, suddenly self-conscious.

 

Her face tender, she whispered softly, "Tell me why Bud…"

 

He shrugged helplessly; Bud had never been good with words. "Because you make me feel...different, I dunno...whole, maybe. Because my shit life turned to gold the minute you walked into it. Because I don't want to live without you now," he finished, his eyes pleading and eager, their aquamarine color deepening as they captured hers.

 

Jeanie stared down at him, lost in his gaze. He was right, nothing that kept them apart for even a few days really mattered. She just wanted to be his wife, live with him, love him. She loved him so much it ached, and if that was all it took to make him happy, he'd have it.

 

"All right, honey. We'll do it your way. No party, no fuss. As soon as we can."

 

He turned his face into her palm, kissed it. "We'll get the license and the blood tests this week, and then we'll go to City Hall. How about next Monday? That's about as long as I can wait, sweetheart."

 

She nodded, laid her hands on his cheeks and whispered against his mouth, "It's a date, Officer White."

 

e e e

 

He kissed her goodbye half an hour later, then jogged down the walk to his car. Again Bud looked at the overgrown shrubs and reminded himself to stop by the hardware store one of these days and buy a pair of shears to cut them back. Maybe he'd turn into a squarejohn once he was married...do the yard stuff, build a barbeque, the works. Jeanie could plant flowers. Yeah, maybe once they bought a place of their own, they'd do all that American dream stuff. He shook his head, amazed at what he was thinking. Funny how a man changed once he made up his mind to get married. A couple of months ago he would have laughed at the idea of buying a house, planting a lawn. Now he figured he and Jeanie could take a ride through a couple of nice neighborhoods tonight, check out the For Sale signs. They couldn't afford much, but it didn't cost shit to look. He laughed to himself. Cheap date, too…they could save more dough for the down payment.

 

He swung up LaJolla to pick up Stens; thought about asking him to be his best man. He needed someone to stand up with him at City Hall, and his partner was the only one he could ask without looking desperate. At the curb in front of Stenland's building, he gave the horn a rap with his fist and waited. Stens rolled out the front door and got in the car. Bud threw a quick glance at him and grinned. His partner looked bad. He hadn't shaved...against regulations...and his eyes were bloodshot. Bud whistled and said in a tone dripping with sarcasm, "Look what the cat dragged in. Tied one on good, huh old man?"

 

Stens shot him a look. "Give it a rest. Where were you last night, hotshot? Half the department was out looking for your ass. I waited at your place until five this morning."

 

The reality of yesterday crashed in, souring Bud's mood. He shrugged, forced himself to stay cool. "Yeah? What for?"

 

Stens stared hard, his eyes probing. He shook his head. "Either you're one helluva of a good actor or..."

 

"Or what? What the fuck's going on?"

 

Wearily, Stensland rubbed a hand over his face. "You're gonna find out." He jerked his chin at the wheel. "We got orders to report to Central dicks this morning. Drive."

 

Bud stared through the windshield. Central dicks. IAD. They made him for Monaco.

 

e e e

 

Jeanie glanced at the clock. Seven fifteen, already after ten in Akron, but still too early to call her mother. She'd be at church. Once Jeanie had been a regular churchgoer too, but that changed when she'd moved to Los Angeles. It made her feel oddly melancholic to go to services alone all the time, so she'd taken to staying at home. Maybe she could talk Bud into going with her once they were married. She grinned to herself. Fat chance of that; it was pretty obvious that Bud White wasn't the devout type.

 

She did the breakfast dishes, then sat with another cup of coffee and read the Examiner from cover to cover, paying special attention to the sales ads. If only the stores were open on Sunday, she'd go out looking for a dress. Bud didn't want a fuss, but Jeanie wasn't going to get married in just anything. She went upstairs and stared into the mirror above her dresser, pushed her fingers into her hair and held it up. Maybe something in yellow, it went with her skin. Pale yellow, almost cream, and a hat with a little veil over her face. She wondered if Bud would think to buy her a corsage. She hoped so, but she wouldn't ask him to. It would mean so much more if he thought of it on his own.

 

'Strange to be thinking of things like dresses and flowers when he'd confessed that he'd intended to kill a man for me last night,' she thought, staring at her reflection in the mirror. It was their good luck that Monaco had panicked and done himself in, saving Bud the trouble and the possibility of a murder charge. Jean let her hair drop, sat down on the edge of the bed. If anyone other than Bud White had told her he'd done such a thing, she'd be shocked and appalled. But it was different with him, and not just because she loved him. He'd gone after Tony Monaco to keep them safe, her and Monaco's poor wife. Jeanie thought of Carl, remembered the pain and humiliation she'd suffered at his hands, the feeling of utter hopelessness when she'd realized he was just like her father. God forgive her, but she couldn't be sorry that Bud had gone after Monaco. She wouldn't have been sorry if Bud had killed him with his bare hands. She was only grateful that there were men like Bud in the world, decent, fearless men who would stop at nothing to protect women.

 

She shook those thoughts away, told herself to forget about Monaco. Bud said it was over and she believed him, trusted him. She bathed and dressed, then set her hair so it would look nice when Bud came home. Jean was on her way downstairs to call her mother when the phone rang. Smiling, sure it was him, she said a breathless 'hello' into the receiver.

 

The familiar voice crackled over the long distance wire. "Jeanie? It's your mother."

 

"Mom, what a surprise! I was just going to call you; I've got some wonderful news..."

 

Jean didn't get a chance to finish. Mae Rohar cut her off, her words tumbling and rushing:

"So do I honey, but it's not good. Baby...Carl's taken to coming around a lot, asking me when you're coming home. Waits on the porch for me to come back from the market, tries to help me with the sacks. He says he wants you back, says those divorce papers don't mean a thing and you're still his wife. He was here a few nights ago, he almost..."

 

Mae stopped abruptly; but Jean mentally filled in the rest of her unspoken sentence. Her stomach knotted. If Carl ever raised his hand to Mae, she'd kill him herself. She unconsciously pressed the black handset closer to her ear and concentrated on her mother's voice.

 

"Jeanie, I don't want to scare you, but you better be careful. The look in that man's eyes reminded me so much of your father back in the old days. God forgive me, I'm glad he's dead... I wish Carl Anderson was dead too. I thought I'd never see a man look at me like that again. I thank God that you're so far away...at least you don't have to live in fear like I did."

 

Carl. Even the sound of his name turned her stomach, but he couldn't hurt her anymore. Now there was Bud, her white knight. The man who loved her, who would keep her safe.

 

But Carl could hurt Mae….

 

Jean said firmly: "Mom, if he comes again, call the police right away. Have him arrested if you have to. Don't let him intimidate you! And don't let him in the house again."

 

"All right, Jeanie. Maybe he gave up…I haven't seen him since Tuesday, but I'll be careful."

 

"Yes, be careful. Keep your doors locked. Now Mom, listen darling...I have some news, fantastic news! I've met a man, a police officer. He's wonderful, so strong and good. We're getting married next week, on Monday..."

 

 

e e e

 

Bud leaned back in the chair, kept his eyes on the two Internal Affairs Division officers across the table from him. Deliberately stalling, they shuffled papers, let him stew. Their obvious attempt at intimidation didn't work; he kept quiet and let it go on a while before he said, "How much longer you two gonna screw around here? I got things to do."

 

Lieutenant Campbell raised his eyebrows. "What's your hurry, White? Something making you nervous?"

 

Bud leaned forward. "I ain't nervous and I wasn't born yesterday. Cut the crap and tell me what the fuck is going on."

 

Campbell looked at his partner and shrugged, said facetiously, "Guess we can't fool a smart guy like him, huh Hollis?"

 

Bud scowled, slouched in the chair and shoved his hands into his pockets. "Spill it, pal. What am I here for? That shit in holding yesterday?"

 

Hollis narrowed his eyes. "Maybe. Why don't you tell us about it?"

 

Bud shrugged. "You got your witnesses...the bluesuits ratted me off."

 

Campbell nodded. "Yeah, they did. Now let's hear it from you. Why did you go after Monaco?"

 

"Same reason I go after all of them...he gets his rocks off beating women."

 

Hollis lit a cigarette. "So you figured he needed a lesson?"

 

"Yeah."

 

"What's with you and wife thumpers, White? Why you got such a hard on for them?" He blew smoke at the ceiling, smiled coolly. "Do you hate them, Wendell?"

 

Bud scowled, ignored the question. "So what gives? Did he file a complaint?"

 

Campbell said softly, "No complaint. Where were you last night, White? We had your place staked out; you never showed."

 

His heart thumped hard. Jeanie...keep her out of this... "Where I spent the night is my fuckin' business. Sir."

 

"Were you shacked up?"

 

Bud glared, his eyes cold.

 

"No dice, huh? All right, what about earlier?"

 

"I was here. Didn't leave until close to eight."

 

"And after that?"

 

"I went to see Sophia Monaco at her uncle's place. Warned them he was back on the street."

 

"How long were you there?"

 

"Half hour maybe."

 

"Make any other stops?"

 

"Yeah. I went to a coffee shop, had some dinner." He grinned. "Flirted with the waitress."

 

"What coffee shop? Will she remember you?"

 

"The Break Time, on Figuroa. And yeah, she'll remember me."

 

"What time did you leave?"

 

"About eleven. You gonna tell me what this is about?"

 

Hollis glanced at Campbell and nodded. Campbell said quietly, "Your pal Monaco bought it last night."

 

Bud raised his eyebrows, concentrated on keeping his voice neutral. "No shit? Somebody clip him?"

 

"You tell us."

 

Bud shook his head. "The fuck would I know? What happened?"

 

"He rolled his car over a cliff. Caught fire...the poor bastard burned to death. There wasn't much left to identify."

 

"How do you know it was him?"

 

"The tags were still in good shape. We ran a trace through the DMV."

 

Bud leaned back. "So what's this got to do with me?"

 

Campbell tapped his pencil on the table, kept his eyes on Bud. "You don't think it sounds suspicious? You threaten him in the morning, he dies a few hours after he makes bail?"

 

Bud shrugged. "I don't give a rat's ass how it sounds. Everyone knows I make it a habit to visit wife thumpers when we got them in lock up. It ain't news."

 

Hollis stared across the table. The silence lengthened, broken only by the ticking of the clock on the wall and muted traffic sounds from outside. Finally he said, "Get the fuck out of here, White. And ease up on the vigilante shit. You'll give the Department a bad rep."

 

"Sure Lieutenant. I'll be a good boy." Bud stood, shouldered his way out the door. Hollis and Campbell watched his back until he turned the corner.

 

"You notice he never said he didn't do it?" Hollis rubbed his face tiredly.

 

Campbell nodded, "Yeah, I noticed." He broke his pencil in half and threw it on the table. "Screw it. If he clipped Monaco, he did us a favor. The fucker was scum."

 

 

e e e

 

Bud stopped in the men’s room, splashed water on his face. Stalemate. They figured he did it, but they couldn't prove shit. He jerked the towel roll down, dried his face when the white cotton came clean. Call it a skate on Monaco, but they'd be watching him. He stared at his face in the mirror, swore. 'Fuck 'em sideways, let 'em watch.'

 

When he came out of the john, Stensland was waiting. "Everything copacetic?"

 

Bud shrugged carelessly. "Yeah. Sure."

 

A nod. "We got a call while you were in there. Whore snuff in Hollywood last night at the Melrose Hotel . The maid just found the body. Grab your evidence kit and let's go."

 

"Five minutes," said Bud, jerking his chin. "Meet you downstairs."

 

e e e

 

Even though he'd seen plenty in his time on the Detective Squad, the crime scene sickened him. Blood in a dark pool around the body, the whore's head cracked open like a walnut, her eyes staring with the blank soulless look of the dead. Bud dusted for prints, waited until the lab guys took their samples and photographed the body, then chalked the outline before the morgue flunkies took her away. He searched the room, crawled on his belly to look under the bed and saw her purse wedged between the wall and the headboard. He dragged it out, rifled through. There was the usual: keys, compact and lipstick, and a wallet with plenty of cash still inside...scratch robbery as a motive. Digging further, he found six foil wrapped rubbers wrapped in a handkerchief, like the victim was afraid someone would see them if she opened her purse.

 

And then he hit pay dirt. Behind the torn lining was her whore book. As soon as he saw it, Bud guessed she had been an independent, with no pimp to call the shots. The book was full of personal notes and contacts; regular johns, other prosties. Bud flipped pages, whistled low as he recognized names. Half of the male stars at MGM and Warner Brothers were listed, enough to give Louie Mayer and Harry Cohn heart failure. Their victim was definitely high class call, not street.

 

The day turned into a long one...Bud interviewed the hotel manager and the maid who'd found the body. Stens, running on empty after his long night, yawned through the long repetitive process, prompting a sarcastic comment from the naturally upset manager, who was already tallying losses and wondering if he could keep the killing out of the papers. Murder was bad for business.

 

They left the Melrose, Bud striding ahead of a lagging Stensland. On the drive to Boyle Heights to interview the night doorman, he fell asleep. Bud left him in the unmarked, talked to the guy himself, and drove back to Central to file a report. He pulled into the parking lot and reached over to shake Stensland awake, but his hand hovered over his partner's shoulder as he looked, really looked, at him for the first time in a long time. He took in the spider-veined nose, the silver at his temples and in his bristled face. There were deep lines etched around his eyes, deeper ones grooved his mouth, and his chin sagged loosely in sleep. Bud stared, and in his mind's eye was the image of what he might have become if it wasn't for Jeanie...a burned out cop with nobody to go home to, nothing left to care about. A used up waste, hanging on for his pension so he could live out the rest of his life sucking down endless bottles of booze. Bud got a chill, thinking that but for Jean, he'd been headed in the same direction. When he shook Stens awake, his hand was gentle.

 

It was after six when he finally left the station. He'd sent his partner home in a black and white at three...Stens was almost stumbling in exhaustion...and finished their report alone. He had one stop to make before he went to Jeanie's.

 

His dreary apartment oppressed him. It wasn't home anymore...never really had been, but now home was wherever Jean was. He closed his eyes and pictured her place, comfortable, warm with the smell of good cooking. And clean, like her. He went to his bedroom, cast a reproachful eye on the unmade bed, the dirty clothes tossed into a pile on the floor, and pulled open the top drawer of his bureau. His hands rifled through socks and boxers until he found what he was searching for. They had been there in the drawer all this time, waiting. Waiting until he found the woman worthy to wear them...his mother's rings.

 

Bud couldn't picture his father as a young man in love and wanting to get married, but the rings were proof that he must have been. He guessed they weren't valuable; if they had been worth any kind of money, the old man would have pawned them when he needed hootch. He turned the engagement ring to the light. The stone was small, but it was pretty. Old fashioned. He took it from the box, slipped it on his pinky. It only went to the first knuckle...his mother had been a small woman with delicate fingers. Bud's mind went back, far back to his childhood, and captured a memory.

 

He and his mother alone in the evening, the old man off somewhere on a drunk. Mother was in the chair, he sat on the floor near her. The radio was tuned into the Cremo hour, Bob Hope and Bing Crosby cracking wise. She was sewing a button on one of the shirts he wore to school, her head bent, lips curved in a smile at Hope's antics, the diamond flashing in the lamplight as she pushed the needle in and out.

 

He remembered thinking, even at such a young age, that she was too fine and beautiful for his father. She should have married someone else, someone who would have kept his side of the bargain, honored the vows he'd made to love, honor, and cherish her. How had she ever ended up with the old man, a drunk who couldn't keep a decent job and took his frustration at being a waste out on his wife and kid?

 

Bud rubbed his thumb over the stone, his face still, thinking of her, wishing she was alive to see him today. Would she be proud of the man he had become? He thought of Monaco, of other men he'd killed in the line of duty and wiped his hand over his chin. She wouldn't be proud of that, but maybe she'd understand his policeman's mentality, his pursuit of absolute justice no matter what it cost him personally to see it through. He didn't do it for money or glory...there were enough hotshots on the force who lived to get their name in the papers. All he wanted was to make sure the fucking killers and rapists didn't get a second chance. He did it because he saw it as his duty, the best way he could protect and serve.

 

He rubbed the ring on his shirt, shined it. The diamond winked at him in the dim light, just as it had that long ago night. It was like his mother was smiling on him. And suddenly Bud couldn't wait to get to Jean and slide it on her finger. Make it official...make her his with his mother's ring. Somehow it seemed right to him, like things had come full circle. He kissed it before he slipped it back in the box, then dropped the box in his pocket. He left his apartment thinking Edith White would have loved having Jeanie for a daughter-in-law.

 

The aroma of roast chicken assaulted him as soon as he came in the door. The radio was on, the Pirates and the Sox broadcasting live from Wrigley Field in Chicago. Bud kissed Jeanie, listened with half an ear for the score. She seemed quiet, subdued. He followed her into the kitchen, sniffing appreciatively and again, the memory of Stensland asleep in the car hit him. What did his partner go home to today? A cheap dark apartment with cinderblock walls, sour-smelling sheets on an unmade bed. Another bottle of rye to nurse him to sleep, his dinner straight from a can, if he bothered to eat at all.

 

Bud suddenly felt like the luckiest guy in the world. He watched Jeanie lift the lid on a bubbling pot; the escaping steam flushed her face with heat. She looked beautiful, innocent...clean. Like an angel, his own angel sent to keep him from a bleak and empty life. He came up behind her, buried his face in her russet hair and kissed the back of her neck.

 

"Hey." He slipped his arms around her waist and gave her a squeeze. "Missed you today."

 

She leaned back against him, pressed her cheek to his nuzzling face. In the past, Bud had often wondered what it felt like to be happy. He hadn't known much happiness since the day he watched his mother die. But now he knew. And standing in her kitchen with his soon-to-be-wife in his arms, Bud White decided if all life ever gave him was Jeanie, it would be enough.

 

She asked him about his day, if everything had gone all right, dancing around the subject as if she was afraid saying the words, 'Do they know about last night?' would bring them bad luck. Bud took in her anxious face, the tiny line between her eyebrows, and gave her a reassuring hug.

 

"Come on, quit worrying. Everything's okay, honey." He paused, decided to tell her. "I had a little session in the sweatbox with IAD first thing this morning. They gave me grief about kicking Monaco's ass yesterday, and that was it. It's over, baby; they'll chalk it up to a mob hit. Cops don't push too hard to find out who killed guys like him."

 

Her eyes went wide at the mention of IAD. Bud had told her about the goon squad...the pricks in Internal Affairs Division who could make a cop's life miserable, get him thrown off the force. She thought of her phone call that morning, the warning her mother had given her. Before he'd come, she'd been wavering, wondering if she ought to tell Bud about Carl and his threats. But Carl was in Ohio, two thousand miles away, and Bud had enough to worry about just now. Jean kept her thoughts to herself and put the food on the table.

 

With an eagerness that belied his troubled day, Bud sat down to dinner. He forked up mashed potatoes and gravy, slid them into his mouth and smiled blissfully. "Jesus...that's good. No wonder you won the blue ribbon, doll." He sipped coffee...perfect coffee...and closed his eyes in satisfaction. He'd heard the old line that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, and always thought it was bullshit. Most guys he knew were more worried about their dick than their stomach, but he had to admit cooking like hers sure was a perk. Maybe it wasn't the way to his heart, but it didn't fucking hurt.

 

He glanced across the table and saw that Jeanie's face was still troubled. Bud changed the subject, hoping to distract her. "Did you call your mother today, babe?"

 

She nodded, her teeth worrying her bottom lip.

 

His fork froze halfway to his mouth. "What? What's wrong?"

 

She shook her head. "Nothing. What could be wrong? I'm marrying the best man in the world in a week, and he loves my mashed potatoes." She smiled at him, the brilliant smile that lit up her face and eyes, but Bud cocked his head, his eyebrows drawing together in a frown. The smile was an act; Jeanie was hinked up good.

 

He reached across the table to squeeze her hand. "Baby?"

 

Jean squeezed back, and this time her smile was real. "Hey, don't look at me like that. I'm not a bad guy. Everything's fine at home; Mom is happy for us. She wants to meet you someday soon."

 

Bud gazed at her, his eyes probing with the intense expression that she privately thought of as his 'detective's face.' He put his fork down. "Tell me what's bothering you, Jeanie."

 

And Jean played the game women have been playing since the dawn of time, neatly distracting him with a deliberate white lie. "Nothing's bothering me but the color of the dress I want to buy for the wedding. Now you know how silly I am." Jeanie crossed her eyes at him and stuck out her tongue to make him laugh.

 

And he did; he loved that side of her, the crazy sense of humor that could make him forget his troubles and just laugh. Putting her mood down to pre-wedding jitters, Bud forked up some more mashed potatoes, and said again, "Jesus, this is good."

 

e e e

 

When Jeanie told him to relax on the couch he wouldn't go, reluctant to be away from her even for that short time. Instead he helped with the dishes, and as he wiped the last of them dry, she made sandwiches from the leftovers and wrapped them in waxed paper for his lunch the next day. Once again, Bud basked in the sensation of being cared for, loved. It struck him that in her own way, Jeanie was as protective of him as he was of her, and he had to admit he liked it. He liked the idea of having a home, a real home, and a warm woman to return to at the end of a crap day. He liked the clean simplicity of their life, the peace. There was enough excitement at work, dealing with perverts and murderers; he didn't need more of it at the end of his shift. Jeanie seemed to like peace too; she was happy to just lounge on the couch with him and listen to the radio, talking about whatever came into her mind.

 

The kitchen returned to its usual neatness, they went to the living room. Bud sat with his feet propped on the coffee table and let her tell him about her day. She'd given Mrs. Martin a cover story, made up something that was half truth, half evasion, and her neighbor seemed to accept it, take it as a matter of course. He nodded approval, pulled her head down to rest on his chest, and kissed the crown of her burnished auburn hair. She fell silent, content to rest there, listening to the strong, steady beat of his heart.

 

"Jeanie?" His voice was a low rumble, the sound reverberating in his chest. She loved his voice, so deep and virile, like he was. She leaned up to kiss him, her strong man, and just before her lips reached his, she saw his eyes. They were soft with love, yet intense, and she waited for him to go on.

 

Gently, as if he couldn't bear for her to see his face, he urged her head back down to his chest. His voice vibrated close to her ear, low, hesitant. "I told you about my mother, that the old man killed her..."

 

She nodded and unconsciously tensed, sensing that what he was going to tell her was bad, the worst kind of bad.

 

"What I didn't tell you is that I was there. I saw it all, I watched my mother die."

 

Jean tightened her arms, instinctively comforting. "Oh, Bud...poor darling. And you were so young…"

 

"Yeah, twelve. Just a kid." He shifted, took something out of his pocket. "I've had this ever since," he said, showing her his palm. "A cop brought it to me at the orphanage after…" He paused, remembering. "The guy was good to me, came to see me once in a while. Took me to a few games at USC, got me interested in football. It kept me off the streets."

 

Carefully, Bud slipped the engagement ring on her finger. It slid easily down, a perfect fit, and her eyes grew wide as she looked at her hand. Bud went on, his words hesitant, almost apologetic. "I know most girls want their own ring, Jeanie…something new and shiny. But you ain't like most girls. I'll buy you one someday, but wear this for me now, okay honey?" He squeezed her hand, whispered into her hair. "Just let me see it there, for a little while."

 

Tears spilled over her lashes and down her cheeks. Jeanie looked at her hand and said softly, "You don't have to buy me another ring, Bud. This means more to me than a new one ever could. I'll never take it off, not as long as I live." Her hand gently cupped his face. "I'll wear it for both of you, Bud. You and your mother."

 

Hot tears stung his eyes. He sat up and lifted her into his lap, hid his face in the curve of her throat. Jeanie straddled him, wrapped her arms around his neck, her hands caressing the short soft hairs on the back of his head. Leaning in, she whispered how much she loved him, told him he'd never be alone again.

 

"No more sadness, Bud. Not for you, not for me. As long as we're together; we'll be happy."

 

The tears were thick in his throat. He nodded, not trusting his voice, just tightened his arms and held her. And she soothed him, her hands stroking gently over his shoulders and back, her lips softly teasing his ear. He shivered at the feel of her breath, the moist heat on his skin, and whispered that he loved her too, that she was all he lived for. That she chased away the bad things, the dark memories, the raging hatred he still felt toward his father. His hands wandered up and down her back, cupped her full buttocks and squeezed. Jesus, she felt so good in his arms. Soft and round, like a woman should be. He leaned her back and buried his face in the open V of her blouse, his tongue stealing tastes of her delicate skin. Sweet, she was so sweet and Christ, he loved to touch her. He filled his hands, gratefully amazed that she was his, his to touch and kiss, his to love forever.

 

"Jeanie, I love you." He kissed the smooth column of her throat, confessed to something that no longer felt like a weakness. "And I need you. I'll always need you."

 

His words warmed her heart as his breath warmed her neck. And suddenly, Jeanie was possessed by desire, a need to feel Bud inside her. She wanted consummation tonight; as if the giving of his mother's ring had been their true wedding. Soft lips pulled at her earlobe and sucked. Jean gasped, turned her head to capture his mouth with hers. Her tongue darted and lapped delicately at his lips until Bud hissed, the poignant emotion inside him changing and heating with the urgent press of her mouth. She was learning, his little almost virgin. Learning what thrilled him, how to tease just enough to make him wild. That sultry innocence, the desire to please. Jesus…

 

His mouth pulled at each full lip separately, kissing them, adoring her. Thick fingers expertly undid the buttons of her cotton blouse until it was open and he could rub his rough cheek across the tops of her breasts and lick the valley between them. His hands slid behind her, one practiced flick and her bra fell loose. He drew it off and tossed it carelessly on the floor, and then her breasts were in his hands. He hefted them, admiring; weighed them on his palms and massaged. Jeanie threw her head back and gasped as Bud leaned to suckle. He pressed her breasts together and dragged his tongue from one nipple to the other, feasting on lush flesh. Warm lips clamped down hard and pulled her breast taut, out from her body. She moaned as sensation coursed through her and held his head, couldn't stop herself from rocking on his lap, grinding herself wantonly into the hard bulge trapped in his pants. Bud thrust upward, instinctively seeking the heat between her spread legs. He grabbed one of her hands, pressed it against his groin, made her squeeze him hard.

 

"Want you…please, baby…"

 

Jeanie's voice thrilled him, ragged and hoarse with need. "Yes, Bud. Oh God, yes. Take me upstairs…take me to bed, please..."

 

A flicker of his gaze showed him her eyes were hooded, languorous. She was already sliding down into the place where she would only focus on what he was making her feel, to the place where he could drive her wild with his words and kisses and make her sweat for him, scream for him.

 

"I want you here…now. I want to watch your face when you come for me…"

 

Jeanie moaned low in her throat, her fingers dug for his raging cock. Bud brushed them aside and fumbled at his belt and zipper, freed himself. His hand slid under Jeanie's skirt and tore at the crotch of her panties. They ripped away, the delicate fabric and stitching no match for his impassioned strength. Closing his hand around his length, he pumped once, then slid the blood-engorged head along her slit. She was so wet for him, her juices had dampened a spot on his pants. He guided himself to her opening, eased in part way, and let her sink down on him to finish the job.

 

His hands cupped and pressed her ass, lifting her, forcing her up and down on his cock. Jeanie braced herself on his chest, used his strength to ride him. Her hair fell in an auburn curtain around her face, her mouth was swollen, bruised from his kisses. Bud watched her eyes through half lowered lashes, thrilled when they glazed and lost focus. She was close; he could feel her clamping down on him, losing her rhythm.

 

"That's it, baby. Come for me..."

 

He urged her on in a hoarse baritone, wondering if he could hold on himself. The sight of her heavy breasts bouncing, nipples dark and distended, almost begging for his mouth, was more than he could stand. His fingers stole between her legs and circled her clit, stroking, teasing...

 

Her head rolled back as her eyes snapped closed.

 

"Bud...oh please, so close...."

 

The ripple of her climax milked his cock like a velvet fist. He rode her through it and then, his hands hard on her hips, Bud grunted and jammed her down as he thrust upward, rough in his passion, lost in chasing his own release. He swore as his orgasm shot through his body, electric fire hissing and licking along every nerve. He tensed, hitched as his cock throbbed and pulsed semen into the heat of Jean's body. She hovered above him, motionless, breathless, and then dived for his lips, kissed him as the last echoes of pleasure ebbed into weakness. Bud's fingers slid into her hair to pull her closer to his devouring mouth.

 

"Jeanie..." he murmured against her lips, the sweet languor of satiation stealing over his senses. Strong hands caressed, held her gently. She nestled into his arms and rested on his broad shoulder, and he whispered into her hair, "Jeanie, I love you."

 

e e e

 

Bud waited in his car in the no parking zone outside Jeanie's office, his police radio on low, the window rolled down to chase off any beat cops who might try to move him on. A few minutes after twelve she breezed through the revolving doors, her eyes darting from side to side as she searched the street. He hit the horn in a short burst of sound. A smile lighted her face when she saw him, and his heart beat hard in his chest. He got out of the car and opened the door for her, stole a kiss before he tucked her inside. As he pulled into traffic, Bud laid her palm on his knee and covered it with his own, his thumb gently caressing her hand. They drove across town to City Hall and applied for their marriage license, then stopped off at Good Samaritan Hospital on Wilshire for blood tests. After, Bud took her into the hospital cafeteria to grab a quick lunch. Jeanie, excited now that this first step had been taken, talked non-stop. Bud ate his sandwich, content just to listen, amazed that this beautiful creature loved him, was willing to be his wife. His ears pricked up when said she'd go and look for a dress after work...the stores in the city were open late on Tuesdays.

 

"How late, baby? I don't like the idea of you running around by yourself. I can come pick you up."

 

"Well, they're open until eight. I don't know, Bud. It might take me forever to see what I want, or I might find the perfect dress right away. I think it's better if I just take the bus, like always."

 

"It's dark by eight," Bud grumbled.

 

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, it is. And I'm a big girl who's been staying out after dark for a long time." She leaned across the table and kissed him. "You worry about me too much."

 

"Like hell I do." Bud reached in his pocket and threw some change on the table. "Come on, I gotta get back to work."

 

In the car they made plans. Next Monday afternoon, Judge Brashear's chambers, at one o'clock. They'd already decided he wouldn't stay with her, wouldn't touch her again until their wedding night. "We'll save it up," Bud grinned evilly, and Jeanie laughed, "Like you need to!" But their laughter dissolved when he told her he'd drive her to City Hall the day of their wedding.

 

"No, you will not! I don't want you to see me in my dress before. It's bad luck."

 

"Who makes up this shit?" Bud shook his head. "Bad luck my ass. You are not going to our wedding in a fucking taxi. Forget it; I'm picking you up. Wear a fucking coat if you don't want me to see your dress." Jeanie swallowed a grin at his language. He was getting worse. 'He must really feel at home with me now...' she thought. But she didn't argue over it; nothing was worth fighting with Bud. There was wonder in her voice as she half turned in the seat and said softly, "Just think, Bud. This time next week I'll be your wife..."

 

"Mrs. White. Can't come soon enough for me, sweetheart." He grinned. "I want you locked up tight, legally mine. Keep all those other guys outta my territory."

 

Jeanie laughed. There were no 'other guys'. Nobody else stood a chance with her as long as Bud was around. She opened her mouth to tell him so when his police radio interrupted, the dispatcher's voice coming thin and tinny through the static.

 

"4A31, please respond."

 

Bud lifted the hand mike, clicked the send button. "4A31, responding."

 

"4A31, proceed to the Melrose Hotel. See the manager; homicide on the premises."

 

"Roger that, dispatch. On my way."

 

Bud tossed the mike down, suddenly all business. With the intrusion of a disembodied voice crackling over a radio, the atmosphere in the unmarked changed from happy anticipation to serious urgency.

 

"A murder?" Jeanie asked, all big eyes.

 

"Sounds like it. I'll drop you off and I gotta go, doll."

 

Bud drove fast but carefully through the traffic-clogged city, running red lights, sliding through stop signs, until they reached the Reliance Insurance Building. He pulled to the curb, leaned over to kiss her goodbye, then reached across to open the passenger door. "I'll stop by tonight, sweetheart," he said, and he wasn't in too much of a hurry to admire the way her skirt molded her ass as she got out of the car. He tore his eyes away when Jeanie pushed the door closed and leaned in the window.

 

"Be careful, Bud..."

 

He threw her a cocky grin. "You bet I will. Gotta big date comin' up next Monday. You be careful too. Take a taxi instead of the bus."

 

She rolled her eyes and said facetiously, "Yes, dear."

 

"Good girl. Later, baby."

 

She watched him pull into traffic, hang a U turn in the middle of the boulevard, and smiled when his waving arm appeared out the window. She waved back and turned to push through the revolving doors. Across the street, a man lowered his newspaper and watched her disappear inside, his face suffused with rage.

 

e e e

 

The Melrose Hotel was in an uproar. Bud shouldered his way through a crowd of cops and found Stensland, who filled him in. Upstairs in Room 404, the scene was familiar and disgusting. The female victim was sprawled naked on the floor in her own blood, her body bruised, her face battered and unrecognizable. This time Bud didn't find anything of interest in her purse or on her clothing, not even ID, but he noticed that she had flaming red hair, just like the previous victim. On a hunch, Bud interviewed the manager again and asked to see the registration files. A quick comparison didn't show any obvious aliases appearing as guests on the nights of the two murders; he looked closer for similarities in handwriting. Nothing that jumped out at him, but he took the book for evidence anyway. Let the forensics guys work it over; they were the pros at that stuff.

 

When the morgue took the victim away, he dusted for prints and Stensland led the housekeeper into another room for questioning. He got nothing coherent out of her, sent her home with advice to have a couple of stiff drinks and go to bed. Bud found the doorman waiting in a break room and they sat down for a long painstaking interview. He was after details, the little things. That's what broke cases; spectacular confessions were bullshit; they rarely happened.

 

At seven he took a break and called Jeanie. The phone rang twenty times before he remembered that she'd talked about shopping after work and hung up. He was on the phone again, talking to the dispatcher of LA Cab, when Russ Millard called him for a meeting with the detectives on the case. He and Stens, a couple of other guys, filed into the squadroom. Bud sprawled in a chair at the back, listened to a purple-faced Millard harangue them. He wanted the murderer found fucking pronto. This was now a major case: LA didn't need another fucking serial killer and the chief didn't want a public outcry like the one they'd had after the Black Dahlia. Bud jotted notes, scowling. A major case meant overtime and long nights; he wouldn't get the week off he wanted, starting next Monday. He had it in his mind to take Jeanie down to Mexico after their wedding...just a little honeymoon road trip starting at TJ and heading south to Ensenada. See the sights, eat some enchiladas, spend a little time on the beach. Make love all day and all night. A smile crept over his face; Millard caught it and raised his eyebrows questioningly.

 

"Something funny, Officer?"

 

"No sir."

 

"Then I'd appreciate a little concentration. See me after the briefing." The rest of the dicks in the room turned to stare; looked like White was in hot water again.

 

Millard dismissed them and Bud waited, flipped through the updates on the bulletin board to kill time. He turned to face him when the lieutenant approached. Millard didn't beat around the bush.

 

"This job has your name all over it, White. Find the killer, and I'll turn you loose on him. Make sure it doesn't make it to court, and IAD will never hear about it from me. You get the picture?"

 

Bud met Millard's eyes coolly. "In technicolor, sir."

 

 

e e e

 

At nine he tried Jeanie again; there was still no answer. Bud drummed his fingers nervously on the desk. She should have been home by now, the fucking stores closed at eight. Maybe she was next door, showing Madge Martin her new dress. Bud swore in frustration. He wanted to tell her he'd be late, make sure she was okay. Where the fuck was she? He had Ginger shag a number for the Martins, no answer there, either. Worried now, he glanced at the clock...nine fifteen...and tried Jeanie again. Twenty rings and nothing. His stomach clenching, Bud left his report unfinished in the typewriter and stuck his head into the dayroom to tell Stensland he was leaving. Stens was in the middle of a story about Mickey Cohen's latest big-titted squeeze and waved him off.

 

It was close to ten when he got to Jean’s duplex. A quick glance showed him the Martins weren't home; the car wasn't in the driveway and their windows were dark. Bud's hands fisted when he saw that Jeanie's were too. The house looked different, forbidding. Lifeless. The curtains were drawn tight; and in spite of the warm night, the windows were closed. Bud's heart rate jumped into overdrive; Jeanie rarely closed the windows. She liked them open, wanted the fresh air. He sprinted to the porch, tried the door. Locked. He used his key and pushed it open. A protesting whine, and then the metallic, coppery smell of blood assaulted him. With a sense of desperate dread, he flicked the button on the overhead light.

 

Chaos greeted him: furniture overturned, the lamp shattered, magazines scattered over the rug. A pale yellow dress hung in the doorway between the living room and kitchen, the price tag dangling from the sleeve. Bud bellowed her name, listened. Silence. He started gingerly toward the kitchen and stopped dead, his mind screaming, refusing to accept what lay behind the couch.

 

"Jesus Christ! Jeanie!"

 

She was face up, her face battered and almost unrecognizable. Bud fell to his knees beside her, bent his ear to her chest. She was still alive, her breath labored and ragged.

 

"Jeanie...baby. Oh fuck, oh Jesus..."

 

He bent over her, afraid to touch, afraid even the gentlest pressure would cause her worse pain. With shaking fingers he smoothed back her hair, lifted her hand and kissed it, called her name over and over.

 

"Don't leave me, baby. Hold on...Jeanie, don't go."

 

But it was too late; she was dying, he knew it. There was too much blood, just like his mother, and the whores at the Melrose. Bud didn't realize he was crying until his tears dropped on Jeanie's cheek. Sobs ripped through him, tearing at his throat, his chest. Jolting adrenalin made his heart pound so hard he thought it would burst.

 

And because he saw it would make no difference, he picked her up and cradled her gently in his arms, pressing soft kisses to her forehead, to her blood-matted hair.

 

"Jeanie, I'm here. I won't leave you baby. I love you. I love you...."

 

Her eyelids fluttered, to the end of his days he'd believe that she heard him. He felt the shudder ripple through her battered body, heard her breath leave her lungs for the last time.

 

"No... Ah fuck... Not again. Not her..." Bud dropped his face into the curve of her neck and sobbed. He held her in tender arms, his body curved protectively over her as he rocked on his knees.

 

e e e

 

 

He didn't know how much time passed, how long he stayed on the floor holding her. It could have been an hour, it could have been three. All Bud knew was that when he finally laid her gently down on the floor and tried to stand, his legs were cramped and stiff, and Jeanie was already cold.

 

The phone had been jerked from the wall, the wire dangled uselessly. Weaving like a drunk, Bud went out to his car and used the radio to request backup and the morgue, and then stumbled back inside. He sat in stunned silence near Jeanie, his fingers gentle in her hair, until he heard the sirens. They were close…they'd be there any minute. As he bent for one last kiss, his eyes slid over her left hand. Bud froze. The ring was gone, the third finger abraded and swollen, as if someone had twisted and pulled to take it from her. There was blood caked under her nails. He stared, eyes narrowed in concentration, as the implication of what that meant ticked through his mind. Her blood, or had she fought the killer?

 

Stens was first through the door; his gun drawn and leveled until he saw there was no need. He took one look at his partner and pulled him aside, let the other dicks begin the investigation. They stood in the archway between the living room and the kitchen, but Bud's eyes never strayed from the woman on the floor. He ran a shaking hand over his hair as Stens waited; wondering what the fuck was going on, until Bud said in a voice gone hoarse with pain, "Her name is Jean Rohar. I been seeing her a couple of months now. We were gonna get married next Monday."

 

Stensland blinked. Bud White, married? His partner had always been a loner, quiet, never talked about his conquests or his private life. Stens had always figured that just like him, Bud White didn't have much of a life outside the Department. But it was suddenly apparent he had, and now she was dead on the floor. Christ, no fucking wonder Bud looked like he was ready to fold.

 

"You got an idea who did it?" Stens asked softly. He didn't think so, but if Bud had anything to confess, now was the time to spill, when there was still time to sanitize the joint.

 

Bud shook his head. "If he wasn't dead, I'd say Monaco. He had a hard on for me and he knew about Jeanie. He was there the night I met her, tried to pick her up. I caught him following us last week...that's why the fucker's dead," Bud said savagely. "Jesus, I thought she was safe once I saw that wop cocksucker burn..." He took a deep breath, fought for control. "Maybe somebody else in the Outfit...a revenge killing for Monaco."

 

His hands fisted, Stensland guessed he was ready to blow. Behind them, the morgue people came in with their stretcher. Flashbulbs went off, forensics taking pictures. They both blinked; Bud kept his eyes screwed tight closed.

 

Stens grabbed him by the elbow, steered him into the kitchen. "Don't watch, Bud. Jesus, you don't want to remember this."

 

Bud nodded, took deep breaths until his fists unclenched. "Listen..." His voice was low and urgent. "I don't want it to get around that I was gonna marry her, you savvy? I'll tell them a fucking neighbor flagged me down in the street, anything to keep it on the QT."

 

"Why?" Stensland didn't get it.

 

Bud growled, his voice low and savage. "This one is mine. I'm gonna find the bastard who did it, and then I'll burn that cocksucker down if it's the last fuckin' thing I do." His eyes burned into Stensland's; cold, hard, murderous. "Keep them off my ass on this, Stens."

 

Fuck regulations and procedure; this was no ordinary case. He knew his partner wouldn't rest until the prick who'd killed Jean Rohar died just as ugly. He looked at the body on the stretcher, watched the sheet settle over Bud's woman, hiding her battered face.

 

Stensland nodded. "You do what you need to, partner. I got your back."

 

e e e

 

Bud drove to the station, Stensland riding shotgun to keep an eye on him. It seemed to him that Bud was too cool, too professionally unruffled. It was either the calm before the storm, or his partner had gone someplace where nobody could reach him. It was a sure bet that Stensland couldn't get to him; but he'd be there in case Bud blew.

 

Half the squad was waiting when they walked into Central dicks. A couple of lieutenants pulled Bud into an interrogation room, and for the second time in two days he found himself facing a rank of hostile detectives across a scarred wooden table. He played it brass balls; gave his statement in a clipped business-like voice, told them a teen-aged kid had flagged him down on the street because he'd heard a woman screaming.

 

What where you doing in Glendale? On my way home.

 

Where was the kid? Gone, ran off.

 

Did you get his name? No.

 

Description? Too dark. Could have chased, but thought I better check the house out first.

 

Satisfied, they let him go in the wee hours. He went to his apartment, drank steadily from a bottle of Christmas scotch until it was half gone, hoping for numbness. It didn't come. At two he found himself driving back to Jeanie’s, prowling slowly through empty streets, looking for Christ knew what or who. He pulled into the curb in front of the dark duplex, cut the engine, and sat for a few minutes, thinking that just yesterday, he'd had it all. And now he had nothing.

 

He got out of the unmarked and with flashlight in hand, went up the curving walk, past the overgrown pyracantha bushes. He cursed himself and choked back guilt-laced rage when he saw the broken branches. The bastard had hidden here, waited for her to come home. Bud examined the ground for footprints, but it was carpeted with crisp brown leaves. No footprints, no fabric caught on the thorns, nothing he could use for evidence. He let himself into the house, hit the lights. His eyes roamed the room, avoiding the chalked outline on the floor, looking for something, anything to tell him what had happened.

 

Methodically, doggedly, he did it by the book. Searched drawers and closets, went through Jeanie's purse. Nothing. With his fingers running lightly over the edges, he examined the doors and windows. No pry marks, everything intact. The guy must have come up on her as she unlocked the door, forced her inside. Bud imagined her terror and shuddered, wished bitterly that he'd insisted on picking her up in town.

 

There was an address book on the telephone bench; he thumbed through, back to front. Nothing caught his attention until he got to the inside cover. Bud didn't think he could hurt any worse, but his chest ached with fresh pain as he read the message in Jeanie's delicate handwriting: In case of accident, please notify Mrs. Mae Rohar, 336 Shaker Avenue, Akron Ohio. GOodyear-3398. Swallowing hard, he tucked the book inside his jacket and put off making the call he knew would destroy Jeanie's mother. Bud prowled upstairs, tossed her drawers and the closet. Her scent was everywhere, haunting him, hurting him. He lowered himself on the bed and rubbed his hand over her pillow, leaned down to breathe her in. Ivory Snow, Niagara starch, and Shalimar.

 

Jeanie...oh Christ, Jeanie...

 

Bud pressed his face into the cool cotton and wept.

 

e e e

 

Mae Rohar sobbed pitifully while But sat with the receiver pressed hard into his ear, wishing he had the words to comfort her.

 

"Ma'am, I loved your daughter." He cleared his throat, swallowed tears. "Jeanie said she told you about us...about next Monday."

 

A whispered, "Yes...she said you were a policeman…"

 

Her words were like a knife to his guts; Bud sagged, visibly recoiling from the pain.

 

"Yeah, I'm a cop. I guess I didn't...." He swallowed the rest, drowning in guilt, but the words were in his head, 'Oh Christ, I failed her... I didn't protect her enough...I'm sorry, so fuckin' sorry.'

 

He fought for composure, reverted to official status to keep from breaking down. "Mrs. Rohar, if you think of anything that might help me...any detail. Even little things are a big help in an investigation like this." He gave her his numbers, told her to call him anytime, day or night, and then promised, "I'll find the man who did this, ma'am. I swear to you, I'll get him."

 

She was sobbing again; Bud doubted she'd heard him. He said goodbye and hung up.

 

e e e

 

Mae Rohar wanted Jeanie buried at home in Akron; Bud told her he'd take care of everything. Making arrangements for the woman he loved and had failed was a penance he deserved; but it didn't assuage his guilt. There was no relief for him and wouldn't be. He'd given the yellow dress to the undertaker, and then found he couldn't bear the thought of seeing her in what should have been her wedding dress. He didn't go to the viewing; instead he stayed to clean up the crime scene himself, another self-imposed penance that had him half-crazed with pain. And afterward, he took to staying at the house, going through Jeanie's things, feeling her around him. He'd found a photograph put away in an old suitcase: Jeanie in a white dress and veil, the guy beside her blonde, good looking. Bud's guts twisted in hatred as he stared at him, thinking of the bastard hitting Jeanie, hurting her. It was a long time before he put the photo back in the case and shoved it on the top shelf of the closet.

 

After a long night spent lying sleepless in the bed where he'd loved her, he went to Union Station on Friday morning and watched in somber silence as her casket was loaded into a baggage car on the Chicago Limited. Jeanie would be at home in Akron on Monday, the day they were to be married. The casket slid through the gaping doors and Bud turned away, afraid he would scream.

 

His partner had kept his promise: nobody in the Department knew about his connection with Jeanie but Stensland. He kept an eye on Bud as much as he could; offered to help the big cop in the investigation. Bud shrugged, tolerated Stenland's assistance during their shift, but after hours, he went off on his own. Stens tried to follow him a couple of times, but Bud picked up his tail and shook him south of Jefferson. He was consistently morose and withdrawn, but behind his eyes there was a simmering rage, a hunger for violence kept barely under control.

 

Every night he prowled the boulevards, shook down snitches for info and got mean when they couldn't tell him anything. His fearsome reputation grew and Rudy, the owner of the Orbit Lounge, actually called LAPD to lodge a complaint that Bud was harassing his customers and ruining his business. Since most of Rudy's business came from organized crime, his complaint was ignored and Bud continued his nightly visits to the joints along the boulevard until the players went to ground and his sources dried up.

 

He was at his desk ten days after Jeanie's murder, looking over his notes and the reports from the coroner. He read over the coldly impersonal information: Victim's blood type: B positive. Blood under fingernails, both hands: O positive. No hairs or fibers found on the body. No evidence of sexual assault. Cause of death: massive blunt trauma to the head and chest. No weapon found at the scene.

 

Just like the hookers at the Melrose Hotel.

 

He compared photographs under the bright light of a gooseneck lamp. Even though they were in black and white, one detail kept coming to his mind. Both of the dead pros had red hair, so did Jeanie. Bud didn't think it was a coincidence; maybe the guy who'd offed the whores had somehow glommed on to her. His mind ticked over possibilities, considering and discarding. He dismissed a mob hit...the outfit rarely clipped hookers; it was like killing the goose that laid the golden egg. Why kill your money-makers, unless those two had the inside skinny on something big? And Jeanie didn't have a connection with them except through him. Was it revenge for Monaco? Maybe, but something, call it a hunch, told Bud that wasn't it. Monaco was a loser; the mob knew it. Not worth a retaliation killing, especially not the girlfriend of a cop.

 

There was something else...something he was missing. Who used the Melrose, besides high class call girls? Bud's eyes narrowed as he concentrated. Tourists. Business men. Fat cats with plenty of dough who spent their days in meetings, their nights looking for a good time in the City of the Angels. The Melrose was near the business district, close to the Reliance Insurance Building. Maybe some squarejohn in town on a business gig had a hard on for redheads. Maybe he'd seen Jeanie at the office and liked her...asked her out. She would have nixed a date, so maybe he'd found himself a whore who looked like her and played out a little fantasy.

 

Bud rubbed his eyes tiredly. He was grasping at straws, but there was something that bothered him about his theory. It was far-fetched, but somewhere in there was a kernel of truth. He just wasn't smart enough to see it.

 

The phone rang, interrupting his train of thought. He picked it up, barked irritably.

 

"White, Central Detectives."

 

"Officer White? This is Mae Rohar, Jeanie's mother."

 

Bud stiffened, guilty again. He'd meant to call her, but he was so fuckin' bad at stuff like this. He said softly, "How are you, ma'am?"

 

Her voice seemed unnaturally tight. "As well as I'm going to be. It's hard...I guess you know that."

 

"Yeah. I know."

 

There was an uncomfortable pause as they both thought of Jeanie, and what had been taken from them. And then Mae coughed and said uncertainly, "You told me to call if I thought of anything..."

 

Bud's head came up; he settled the phone on his shoulder and grabbed a pencil. "Yeah, I did. Something happen?"

 

"You know about Carl Anderson, don't you? Jeanie told you?"

 

"The ex? That he hit her? Yeah, she told me."

 

"Not just that he hit her. Didn't she tell you he was coming around here? That he wanted her back?"

 

A cold hand reached inside Bud's chest and squeezed. Jeanie hadn't mentioned it. Why?

 

"No. Suppose you tell me?" he said stiffly.

 

"I wrote to her, maybe a month ago. Told her that he was coming around, begging me to tell him where she'd gone. When I didn't hear from her, I called. The Sunday before she died."

 

The Sunday before...Christ, the day after Monaco bought it. Jeanie wouldn't tell him because of the IAD shit. She kept it to herself, protecting him. Ah Christ, Jeanie...

 

"Go on," Bud grated.

 

"He threatened me. I had a husband like him; I recognized the signs. The violence. He was going crazy because he couldn't find out where she was." Mae paused, took a breath. "Maybe it's innocent, but I learned something at the funeral. The station master was there, and he told me that Carl bought a ticket to Los Angeles two weeks ago."

 

There was a rushing sound in his ears as Bud's brain screamed. Two weeks...the prick was in LA when Jeanie was killed. When the whores were clipped in the Melrose.

 

"He wasn't at the funeral," Mae said softly. "But I saw him today on the street. He tried to hide from me, but I saw him. Officer White, he has scratches on his face."

 

Fury like a red mist over his eyes, distorting his vision. The photographs on the desk seemed to waver, their bloody goriness a scream for vengeance. In a clipped voice Bud thanked her for calling him, said she'd hear from him soon. He sat at his desk until he was sure he could control his face, and then he went to see Russ Millard.

 

The lieutenant was at his desk, doing paperwork. He waved Bud into a chair, but Bud couldn't sit. He stood hunched and tense in front of the desk, waiting until Millard scratched his signature on the bottom of a report, and then looked up. His face changed as he took in Bud's expression; he sat back in his chair.

 

"White? Something wrong?"

 

"I need some time off."

 

Millard narrowed his eyes. "We're in the middle of a major case, officer. Nobody's getting time off."

 

Bud leaned on the desk, palms flat, his face dark and forbidding. Involuntarily, Millard recoiled. Jesus, the fucker looked crazy...

 

"Either you give me the time, or I quit. Make up your mind, lieutenant."

 

Millard hesitated. White was a valuable officer; he was incorruptible. Didn't give a fuck for glory, never chased a headline. And there was nobody like him for putting the fear of God into a reluctant suspect...

 

"How long?"

 

A shrug. "Few days, maybe a week." White's eyes bored into Millard's, and in them, the lieutenant saw a plea beneath the cold rage.

 

"This got something to do with the case?"

 

Silence. Millard knew he wasn't going to get anything out of Bud. He remembered his promise and said, "Get out of here, White. Make sure your ass is in this office next Tuesday morning."

 

Bud left without a word, and as the door closed behind him, Millard sagged in his chair. He hadn't realized he'd been that tense, but Bud White with his blood up was nobody to cross.

 

e e e

 

Bud left without telling anyone he was going. On his way to his apartment, he stopped at the bank, half emptied his account for ready cash, and then went home to pack. He didn't take much, didn't need much beside a throwdown .38 that he wrapped in a towel and shoved to the bottom of the bag under a couple of clean shirts.

 

At Los Angeles Municipal, he went to the TWA counter and bought a ticket under the name of William Westerman. It was a midnight flight; he got a motel room across the highway and waited, sleepless, until it was time to go. On the plane he did what he could to remain inconspicuous; he grunted a no when the stewardess asked if he wanted a drink and kept his face buried in a newspaper. When the Stratoliner landed in St. Louis at 4:00 a.m. for a refuel, Bud got out to stretch his legs. He hit the men's room in the terminal for a quick piss and at the sink, splashed water on his face. There was a coffee shop open; he grabbed a cup and sprinted back to the plane when his flight to Cleveland was called over the PA.

 

It was daylight by the time they landed in Cleveland. Bud grabbed his bag from the guy unloading the luggage bay and went into the terminal. Even though it was early, the place was busy enough that he could blend in with the crowd. Once outside, he ignored the taxi rank and headed for the parking lot, looking for a car to steal.

 

He saw a couple in their late fifties standing outside an Oldsmobile 88 Holiday. The trunk was open; Bud watched the husband pull two suitcases from inside, set them on the gravel, and slam the lid down. The guy looked carefully around, and then pushed something into the fender well, feeling his way. The old lady's mouth never stopped from the time he picked up the cases until they passed him, heading for the terminal.

 

"Are you sure the car will be safe here, Edgar? I don't know...a whole week in a parking lot..." She stopped dead, snapped open her handbag. "Did I forget the tickets? No, here they are...two first class seats on the eight o'clock to Las Vegas." She closed her purse but not her mouth. "You should have given me that spare key instead of hiding it, Edgar. Anybody could find it and steal our new car..."

 

Sounded like Edgar was getting tired of it, Bud heard the edge of irritation in his voice when he answered.

 

"For crying out loud, Martha! You weren't even sure that you had the danged tickets! The car's fine, now can we just get a move on before the danged airplane leaves without us?"

 

Bud didn't listen to the rest. He waited until they were in the terminal and then strode to the Olds. The key was there, hidden in the fender well. Bud said under his breath, "Thanks, Edgar...and Martha, you were right. Just be glad it's me, because I'll bring it back. I'll even fill it with gas."

 

After he got out of the city, it was a straight shot down Highway 91 to Akron. Bud hit a diner in town for some breakfast, went to the pay phone and thumbed through until he found the listing for Carl Anderson. He called, no answer. He tipped the waitress a quarter and got back in the Olds, found the address and parked across the street, his eyes narrowed and intense.

 

The house was pre-war, frame, and on a quiet street. That wasn't good, but the neighbors weren't too close and there were trees between them. Bud waited, saw the woman next door leave and head into town on foot, pushing a kid in a blue stroller. She never gave the Olds a glance.

 

When she turned the corner he got out of the car and went up to Anderson's house, took the mail out of the box and walked around to the back. On the porch he rifled through Anderson's mail; an electric bill, a paycheck from Firestone, a magazine. He tried the door; it was unlocked. No dog barked when he slipped inside. Bud searched like they'd taught him at the Academy, in and out of the rooms fast. In the living room, there was a wedding picture on the mantel, a copy of the one he'd found in Jeanie's suitcase. Nothing in the desk, no ticket stubs, no scrap of paper with the Hollywood address. He found what he was looking for in a bedroom, tossed carelessly on the dresser. The proof, undeniable and positive...his mother's ring, traces of blood caked around the stones, and a book of matches from the bar in the Melrose Hotel.

 

He let the blackness roll over him, let the hatred build into a murderous rage. Bud dropped the ring into his pocket and left the house. Inside he was screaming, outside he was sane. He even remembered to pick the mail up from the table outside on the porch, and put it back in the box on his way to the car.

 

Three miles outside of town he'd passed a seedy tourist camp next to a gas station; its lot full of trucks. He drove there, paid cash for a cabin, registered under an alias. He lay on the lumpy mattress with his arms folded behind his head and waited.

 

Three o'clock found him parked across the street again. He heard the shift whistle blow at the plant in town. The neighborhood was busier now; men were coming home from work, their kids out on lawns playing, pretty housewives in aprons waiting for their husbands. It was like a vignette from The American Dream, the dream that had been stolen from him. He sat up straight when he saw Anderson coming down the sidewalk, a lunch box swinging from his right hand. Carl stopped at the box and got his mail, waved at the folks next door, and went in the house. Bud stared after him, his guts churning, his face grim.

 

'I got you made good, you fuck.' He started the Olds and drove slowly down the sycamore lined street, back to his room at the tourist camp.

 

e e e

 

Late night; the squarejohns going to bed for another shift in the morning. He parked the Olds down the block near a vacant lot. Bud watched the lights go out in house after house, then slipped around into Anderson's backyard and tried the door. Unlocked. Bud shook his head at the trust of small-town America. He slid inside and stood in the hall until his eyes became accustomed to the dimness. From the living room came the low hum and the flickering light of a television; Bud moved silently toward it.

 

Anderson was on the couch, a newspaper folded on his chest. His face was turned toward the television, but he was dozing through the late news. Bud approached, his soft-soled shoes silent on the carpet, until he was standing over him. Anderson sensed him; his eyes shot open, he blinked, and Bud saw the ghost of recognition flit across his face before he scowled.

 

He started to get up. "Who the hell are you?"

 

Bud shoved him back with one hand, leaned over with a menacing glare. "Something tells me you know who I am, shitbird. How was your trip to the west coast? Have a good time?"

 

Beads of sweat formed on Anderson's forehead. "What do you want?"

 

Bud stared coldly down at him, a muscle twitching in his cheek. "Justice."

 

e e e

 

Mae Rohar answered his knock late the next morning. She kept the storm door closed between them, peered at Bud through the screen. Bud saw Jeanie in her eyes and the high cheekbones that kept her face handsome, in spite of her age. He swallowed hard.

 

"Ma'am? I'm Bud White."

 

Recognition bloomed, a faint blush colored her cheek as her hand crept to her throat. "My Jeanie's Bud?" When he nodded, she opened the door. "Come in, Bud."

 

He followed her back to the kitchen; just like Jean, she seemed comfortable there. She lifted a pot off the stove. "Coffee?"

 

"Thank you, ma'am." He waited until she'd filled a cup and sat down across from him. Her face was calm, her eyes serene as she waited to hear what he'd come so far to say. But as usual, Bud couldn't find the right words to begin.

 

Mae prompted gently, "Did you find the man who killed my daughter, Bud? Is that why you're here?"

 

"I found him, yeah. He won't be bothering you anymore." Bud sipped his coffee, paused, and lowered the cup carefully back in its saucer. His eyes closed as the perfect brew rolled over his taste buds; it was Jeanie's coffee, and for just a moment, he was back in her kitchen and life was good again.

 

Mae Rohar reached across the table and softly touched the back of his hand. "Jeanie said you were a good man," she whispered.

 

 

 

Two Weeks Later

 

Bud walked into Central dicks and headed to the dayroom for coffee. Inside it was noisy; he listened impassively to the usual early shift banter, single guys ragging each other about getting laid the night before, the married stiffs complaining that a piece of ass was hard to come by once the kids started coming. He checked the bulletin board for updates, snagged a doughnut from the box on the table, and went to work. A manila envelope waited on his desk, big and rectangular. He checked the return address: Akron, Ohio. Jeanie's mother.

 

There was a photograph inside; Jeanie in a black dress that left her shoulders bare. His face softened as he looked at her. So young and fresh, her long hair falling to curve around her throat, the perfectly shaped lips that he'd loved to kiss, those deathless, loving eyes. He looked a long time, remembering, mourning, and then laid it gently on the desk and shook a letter and a newspaper clipping from the envelope.

 

He picked up the letter, unfolded it. Mae Rohar's handwriting was enough like Jeanie's to give him a jolt of pain.

 

Dear Bud,

 

I thought you might like to have this picture of Jeanie. It's from her high school graduation, but I don't think she changed that much in the eight years since then.

 

I was glad to meet you when you were here. Now I know why my daughter loved you so much. You're a fine man, Bud White. Any woman would be proud to call you her husband, or her son.

 

Bud, thank you. I'll always think of you as Jeanie's husband.

 

With grateful affection,

Mae Rohar

 

 

 

He fingered the letter, remembering Mae's sorrowful eyes. She'd kissed him on the cheek when he left that day, he'd felt the trembling in her lips and knew she was going to cry. And as usual, he hadn't had the words to comfort her. But something told him she understood. Just like with Jeanie, he hadn't had to say it, she just knew.

 

The clipping lay face down on the desk, next to Jean's picture. Bud turned it over, read:

 

 

'Carl Anderson, ex-husband of the recently murdered Jean Rohar, was found dead in his home yesterday by a friend who came to check on him after he hadn't shown up for work in several days. Anderson, said by friends to be despondent over the death of his ex-wife, apparently shot himself sometime late Tuesday evening.'

 

 

 

Bud didn't bother to read further. He knew the rest. He crumpled the clipping in his fist and tossed it into the trash can next to his desk, tore up the letter and let it go, too.

 

He'd got away clean.

 

end

 

 

 

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