8:11 p.m.

Yard work. Night work, by searchlight. Dudley’s graph to Scotty’s snitch sheet to Here.

Ashida carried a knapsack and lantern. It was confirmation work and last good-byes. He walked the ground between The House and the parkway. He’d bottled four soil samples so far.

Two stunk of shrimp oil. It confirmed the graph and snitch sheet.

Dudley trekked this path last Friday. Dudley spun theories.

Preston Exley and Pierce Patchett were land czars. Dudley’s resultant surmise:

They buy land and destroy its crop-raising potential. They build parkway ramps and commercial structures right Here.

He’d been out all day. Confirmations, good-byes.

He drove to the Valley. He went by four wetback-staffed farms. Slave crews picked diseased-looking crops.

He bottled four soil samples. They all contained shrimp oil. He went by three all-Japanese farms. The crops there looked healthy. He bottled soil samples. There was no shrimp-oil scent.

It confirmed Dudley’s theory. Destroy crops. Build internment centers. Usurp the all-Japanese farms. Build internment centers There.

He left the Valley and drove to Kwan’s. He worked the death car and got An Idea. He clocked out and drove to the Bureau.

Dudley neglected a follow-up. It did not appear on his graph.

Check the reverse directories. The Watanabe house was one prospective ramp and land site. Dudley surmised other ramp and land sites. Dudley did not follow up.

Other houses had been bought. That was common case knowledge. Buzz Meeks tracked sales to Glassell Park and South Pasadena. South Pasadena was on the parkway. Glassell Park was close but not on. Glassell Park houses were valuable but not essential. Houses right by ramp sites were pure gelt.

He hit the Bureau. He shagged the Central Reverse Book. He worked the street-address and house owners’ index. The Watanabes were the only Japanese in Highland Park. A few Japanese lived in South Pasadena.

He found three. Nagoya, Yoshimura, Kondo—all on the parkway.

Lincoln Heights ran parkway-parallel. It began just north of Chinatown and continued two miles up. A drainage creek nixed eastside-flush homes. Behind the creek and still close? Let’s check right There.

He found three more. Takahama, Miyamo, Hatsuma. All close to the creek.

He drove by all six houses. All six were parkway-flush or creekflush. He walked around the exteriors. All six houses had been cleaned out.

Dudley got most of it. He got the rest.

Who is the white man in the purple sweater? We both want to know.

Ashida walked up to the back door. He let himself in. He turned on the lights and strolled. Let’s say farewell to The House.

It was still intact-furnished. The check-in log was still there.

He skimmed through. The entries ran from 12/7 to 12/19. He’d logged in fourteen times. Dudley checked in twelve times.

He checked the check boxes. Dust all touch surfaces—check. Dust all grab surfaces—check. Itemize the kitchen. Itemize the bedrooms. Itemize the living room.

Latent-print boxes. Inventory boxes. Empty the drain grates. Test all solvents. Print-dust all glassware. Carbon sheets by the work log. Everything in The House, itemized.

He went down the check boxes. He recognized his own check marks. Forty-two separate boxes checked, all the way to—

“Master bedroom closet/​victims’ clothing (laundry marks, moneys, note slips, etc.).”

Box no. 43—un-checked.

Oversight. It happened. Shitwork accumulated. Cases grew cold.

Box 43. Check it now. Formalize this farewell.

Ashida walked upstairs. Box 43 was the toss-the-pockets step. It was often overlooked. The victims’ death garb had been checked.

He walked into the bedroom. He opened the closet. Aya left three smocks behind. There were no toss pockets sewn on or in. Ryoshi left two sports coats—blue serge, gray herringbone.

Four pairs of shoes. Neckties on a hook. Belts on a wall peg.

Ashida went through the blue serge and got zero. Ashida patted the herringbone breast pocket and felt a bulge.

He reached in and removed it. It was a pair of men’s socks, turned inside out.

Tan, cable-knit, cashmere. Sized for a small-footed man. Maroon stains on the soles. Congealed matter—inside and out.

Men’s hosiery. Expensive—and small. Ryoshi and Johnny Watanabe had large feet.

Ashida touched the stains. Ashida smelled them. They were dried blood.

The killer walked the house with his shoes off. The killer stepped in blood. The killer panicked and got rid of his socks.

No. That was wrong. That didn’t fit. His killer would not do that.

Ashida thought it through. Ashida worked backward. The blood-dotted glass shards—12/7/41.

The Watanabes oil-doused their feet. They were soil contaminators. They sprinkled the shards on their feet. It aerated the ground. The Watanabes had heavily callused feet. Glass shards on their feet would not produce this much blood. These were men’s socks. They wouldn’t fit Ryoshi or Johnny. They might fit Aya and/​or Nancy.

Ashida ran downstairs. Ashida read every carbon sheet. Every item of clothing in the house had been logged. There were no tan cashmere socks. There were no tan socks or cashmere socks—male/female, over and out.

He went out the front door. He got his car and drove to the morgue. He ran inside. An attendant buttonholed him. He said something about the crematorium.

Ashida quick-walked there. Nort was stoking an incinerator. Four sheet-covered stiffs were laid out on gurneys. The sheets were solvent-soaked and prepped to ignite.

“Jesus, you’ve got timing. Did you come to say good-bye?”

“How badly have they decomposed?”

Nort shook his head. “You’ve got something, son. Tell me what it is before they go.”

Ashida tossed him the socks. “I found them at the house. They weren’t itemized, and they’re too small and too expensive for Ryoshi and Johnny. Look at those bloodstains. You can’t attribute them to glass shards and shrimp oil on heavily callused feet.”

Nort nodded. Ashida caught The Smell. They’d decomped past their use date. Their flesh was off the bone.

He pulled up all four sheets. Their feet were still intact. Nort held the socks up to them.

They were far too small for Ryoshi and Johnny. They were too small for Aya and Nancy. The Cashmere Sock Man had tiny feet.

A microscope was bolted to a workbench. A stack of files sat next to it. Nort ripped off a sock swatch and clamped it under the slide.

He dialed in. He looked down. He plucked a file and consulted an autopsy sheet. He looked back and forth six times. He wheeled and grinned.

“He stepped in visceral blood. It was Ryoshi’s. He’d had a recent intestinal infection. There’s leukocytes all through that stain.”

Who is the white man in the—

Nort said, “Werewolves don’t have small feet. Not that I didn’t know it was a frame.”

The incinerator kicked on. Ashida felt a big blast of heat.

He cranked up the gurneys and pushed them to the edge. He tipped the bodies into the flames.

Nort said, “Sayonara, folks. I wish we’d done better by you.”