6:49 a.m.

Lee Blanchard said, “The natives are restless.”

Nort Layman said, “Do you blame them? Your neighbors are up and at ’em one day, going out under sheets the next.”

Thad Brown said, “The sheet blew off of Nancy. They got a goddamn good look.”

Blanchard said, “She was a dish.”

Ray Pinker said, “Yeah, if you like raw fish.”

The porch was packed: Blanchard, Brown, Layman, Pinker, Ashida.

Dudley watched bluesuits hold off the crowd. Gawkers filled the street. They eyeball-drilled the house and kicked up a fit.

The stiffs went out at sunup. Early birds caught the show. The hara-kiri rumor ran full speed now. He heard JAPS six thousand times. He watched Ashida take it stoically.

The gawkers gawked and jabbered. Men held their kids aloft. The house was rope-cordoned. Eight blues held the line taut. Jejune Jack Webb was out among the natives. He lugged a radio contraption and did interviews.

Some Japs killed themselves. Who gives a shit? No tickee, no washee. Where’s Charlie Chan and Mr. Moto? It’s Sunday morning—this sure beats church.

The house reeked of fried rice. Ace Kwan sent breakfast up. Dudley barely touched it. He flew on yesterday’s Benzedrine.

The job was meddlesome. Jerome Joseph Pavlik could not have snuffed the Japs. He was down in a lime spill at the time of death. The bullet hole and silencer threads might not be a true lead. Pavlik might not be the heist man. The armband-fiber lead might not play. The book-rack fibers might not have been left by the heist man.

The heist man probably fired the shot at the house. There were no firearms on the premises. Nort Layman would paraffin-test the dead Japs. The bullet hole looked fresh. The silencer threads were off a fresh fire. Nort would know if the Japs had fired guns recently. Most telling—that note taped on the wall.

Dudley stood on the porch and prepped a logbook. It tallied check-ins and tasks performed. The case could blow wide and go long.

A Helms truck pulled up to the crowd. The gawkers swarmed it for coffee and crullers. A geek pointed to the porch and yelled, “Goddamn Jap!”

Ashida did not flinch. Staunch lad—ever calm.

Blanchard said, “We should be canvassing.”

Dudley said, “Cause of death, lad. It’s our first priority.”

Brown nudged Dudley. They walked inside and huddled. The breakfast dregs were still out.

Brown said, “This job is nothing but shit. It’s shit the Los Angeles Police Department and the city of Los Angeles don’t want or need.”

Dudley said, “Yes, I’ll concede that.”

That geek yelled, “Goddamn Jap!” It boomed through the house.

Brown said, “And?”

Dudley said, “Ideally, we should can it. We should mark it ‘suicide, case closed,’ and let those heathens rot in hell for their domestic sins.”

Brown said, “What sins? They were working stiffs.”

Dudley said, “The family strikes me as more original than that. If we proceed, I’ll keep you abreast.”

Brown snagged an egg roll. “And less than ideally?”

Dudley said, “I think a Japs-killed-Japs solution would make us look good, and allow us time to prepare for Christmas with our families.”

The geek yelled, “Goddamn Jap!” Blanchard walked in and beelined to the chow.

Brown nodded. “Japs killed Japs. It’s got a good ring.”

Dudley snatched Blanchard’s plate. “That lad shouting racial slurs may be offending Dr. Ashida. Please take him someplace secluded and kick the shit out of him.”