the corner of Highland, near Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. His card got him in to see Charlie Wainwright, boss of the West Coast region, who said, ‘Hi, Ben; what are you doing over here?’
‘Slumming,’ said Hardin as he sat down. ‘You don’t think I’d come here if I had a choice?’
‘Still the same old grouch.’ Wainwright waved his hand to the window. ‘What’s wrong with this? It’s a beautiful day.’
‘Yeah; and the last for ten years,’ said Hardin. ‘I had that on authority. I’ll give you a tip, Charlie. You can get a hell of a view of the San Gabriels today from the top of Mullholland Drive. But don’t wait too long; they’ll be gone by tomorrow.’
‘Maybe I’ll take a drive up there.’ Wainwright leaned back in his chair. ‘What can we do for you, Ben?’
‘Have you got a pipeline into the Sheriff’s office?’
‘That depends on what you want to come down it,’ said Wainwright cautiously.
Hardin decided not to mention Hendrix. ‘I’m looking for a guy called Biggie. Seems he’s mixed up in a commune. They were busted by sheriff’s deputies about ten months ago over in North Hollywood.’
‘Not the LAPD?’ queried Wainwright. ‘Don’t they have jurisdiction in North Hollywood?’
Hardin was sure Mrs White had not mentioned the Los Angeles Police Department, but he checked his notebook. ‘No; my informant referred to the Sheriff’s Department.’
‘So what do you want?’
Hardin looked at Wainwright in silence for a moment before saying patiently, ‘I want Biggie.’
‘That shouldn’t be too difficult to arrange.’ Wainwright thought a while. ‘Might take a little time.’
‘Not too long, I hope.’ Hardin stood up. ‘And do me a favour, Charlie; you haven’t seen me. I haven’t been here. Especially if Gunnarsson wants to know. He’s playing this one close to his chest.’
‘How are you getting on with the old bastard?’
‘Not bad,’ said Hardin noncommittally.
Two hours later he was in a coffee shop across from City Hall waiting for a deputy from the Sheriff’s Department. Wainwright had said, ‘Better not see him in his office—might compromise him. You don’t have an investigator’s licence for this state. What’s Gunnarsson up to, Ben? He’s not done this before. These things are usually handled by the local office.’
‘Maybe he doesn’t like me,’ said Hardin feelingly, thinking of the miles of interstate highways he had driven.
He was about to order another coffee when a shadow fell across the table. ‘You the guy looking for Olaf Hamsun?’
Hardin looked up and saw a tall, lean man in uniform. ‘Who?’
‘Also known as Biggie,’ said the deputy. ‘Big blond Scandahoovian—monster size.’
‘That’s the guy.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m Ben Hardin. Coffee?’ At the deputy’s nod he held up two fingers to a passing waitress.
The deputy sat opposite. ‘Jack Sawyer. What do you want with Biggie?’
‘Nothing at all. But he’s running with Henry Hendrix, and I want to visit with Hank.’
‘Hendrix,’ said Sawyer ruminatively. ‘Youngish—say, twenty-six or twenty-seven; height about five ten; small scar above left eyebrow.’
‘That’s probably my boy.’
‘What do you want with him?’
‘Just to establish that he’s his father’s son, and then report back to New York.’
‘Who wants to know?’
‘Some British lawyer according to my boss. That’s all I know; Gunnarsson doesn’t confide in me. Operates on need to know.’
‘Just like all the other ex-CIA cloak and dagger boys,’ said Sawyer scornfully. He looked at Hardin carefully. ‘You were a Company man, too, weren’t you?’
‘Don’t hold it against me,’ said Hardin, forcing a grin.
‘Even if I don’t that doesn’t mean I have to like it. And you don’t have an investigator’s licence good in California. If I didn’t owe Charlie Wainwright a couple I wouldn’t be here now. I don’t like you guys and I never have.’
‘Now wait a minute,’ said Hardin. ‘What’s eating you?’
‘I’ll tell you.’ Sawyer leaned forward. ‘Last year we busted a gang smuggling cocaine from Mexico. Turned out that half of them were bastards from the CIA. They claimed we’d wrecked one of their best Mexican operations. We said they were breaking the law of the United States and we were going to jail them. But do you think we could? Those sons of bitches are walking around free as air right now.’
Hardin said, ‘You can’t blame that on me.’
‘I guess not,’ said Sawyer tiredly. ‘Okay, I’ll tell you where to find Biggie.’ He stuck out his forefinger. ‘But step out of line one inch and I’ll nail your hide to the barn door, even if it’s for spitting on the sidewalk.’
‘Thanks,’ said Hardin ironically.
‘You’ll find the gang down at Playa del Rey. If they’re not there try Santa Monica, down near the Bristol Pier. There’s a greasy spoon called Bernie’s where they hang out.’
Hardin wrote in his notebook. ‘Does Hendrix have a record? Or Hamsun?’
‘Hamsun’s been busted for peddling pot. He had a fraction under an ounce on him, so it didn’t come to much. Nothing on Hendrix; at least, not here.’
‘I’ve been wondering about something,’ said Hardin, putting away his notebook. ‘When you cracked down on the commune in North Hollywood you found some funny things in the house, I hear. Statues of some kind, and not the kind a good, Christian woman would like.’
‘The good, Christian woman being Mrs White,’ said Sawyer ironically. ‘The old witch. There’s nothing to it, Hardin. It’s just that the kids tried their hand at pottery; reckoned they could sell the stuff at the Farmer’s Market and make a few dollars. That pottery kiln did most of the damage to the house when it blew up.’
‘Is that all?’
‘That’s all,’ said Sawyer, and laughed. ‘Turned out they weren’t very good at sculpting. They didn’t know enough anatomy; least, not the kind you need for sculpting.’ He became philosophical. ‘They’re not a bad crowd of kids, not as things are these days. Sure, they smoke pot, but who doesn’t? I bet my own kids do when I’m not around. They’re just mostly beach bums, and that’s not illegal yet.’
‘Sure,’ said Hardin. He had a sudden thought. ‘Does Biggie still wear the ankh?’
‘The
